Stockholm Charlie
by FraidyCat
Summary: Charlie is lost...found...and still lost.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here is an offering for my loyal readers. This is my 50th (count 'em) story for ff, so I want to make it special for us all. This is, like my last major story, born from an idea proposed by Tanager36 – thanks! **

**Not that I am begging for reviews (we all know how ugly that can get), but wouldn't it be a sweet gift if I got 50 on the first chapter of my 50th? Just an idea (sniff); I'll understand if you can't, really (choke). **

**Anyway, the estute may notice characters from another CBS show I do not own in this chapter ("The Unit"). This is not a genuine crossover, but just a tiny guest appearance by the guys. Oh. I hope we all have so much fun!**

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**Title: Stockholm Charlie**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. If I did, would I share them with you?**

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**Chapter 1**

Jonas and Hector knelt in the clinging reeds of tall grass, huddled in a trampled-down space, under a canopy of thick trees. They were on a slight ridge overlooking the compound, and a dead soldier lay ignored beside them. Hector tracked Bob and Mack through a range finder as they approached a low, concrete building. It was completely out of place; obviously man-made, but so inappropriate in the center of the El Salvadoran jungle that it seemed to have dropped from the sky.

Jonas scanned the perimeter with his naked eyes, alert for signs of other guards. So far, intel had been correct. The one he had taken out easily, the man who lay beside him now, and only one other. The other guard had been perched lazily on top of the cement bunker, most of which extended underground. In the years of its existence, this particular compound had never been discovered, and was known only to a few soldiers. In crudely partitioned rooms inside, it was intended to house a cache of weapons, and political prisoners who had become too hot to hold elsewhere. Before Bob walked casually up to him while Mack appeared behind him and broke his neck, the soldier had not spent one moment worrying about the safety of this compound. In fact, he considered it a boring duty. The weapons room was temporarily empty – another shipment of arms should come through the jungle tomorrow – and there were only three prisoners.

There had been four until yesterday. The two guards had waited until almost dusk to drag the body from the bunker and bury it in the jungle. The prisoners were, for the most part, well-behaved; but it never hurt to take advantage of a situation. When the Senator finally succumbed to the malnutrition that plagued them all, the guards had moved the dead man into the hall visible to the other three cells, and beaten him without mercy. They let the others think they killed him that way, and then they left him lying there all day.

They kicked the body brutally out of the way in order to deliver the day's one meal of water and bread. Grubby fingers grabbed for the meager offerings, and the guard who spoke English teased them. "You get more thees day. We _muy bueno_ to you, give you thees bastard's share!" He kicked the body again, and laughed as one by one, they turned their eyes away, but continued to eat.

Now, Bob caught that guard's boneless carcass as it slid off the bunker, after Mack killed him. Bob's voice crackled over Jonas's headset. "Snake Doctor, we're going in. Repeat, Operation Retrieval in action." He looked in the direction where he knew Jonas and Hector waited, even though he could not see them, while Mack jumped down off the bunker to join him.

They circled around the edge of the bunker, zeroing in on a round disk in the ground reminiscent of a sewer access panel, back home. Sitting near it was half a bucket of stale water, drowned flies floating lazily on its surface. A look of distaste crossed Mack's face, and he scanned the jungle, weapon at the ready. Bob tilted the disk up and dragged it to the side, immediately assailed by the odor of filth, and death. He exchanged a glance with Mack before he hung his machine gun over his shoulder and plunged down the steps into the darkness.

Once at the bottom of the steps, Bob switched on his high-powered flashlight. A narrow corridor ran the length of the bunker, three rooms on each side, just as their informant had said. Working quickly, he soon found that the first room on his left, the one for weapons, was empty. His heart twisted a little and his level of alertness heightened, if possible. The intel was bad. He worked his way through the rooms, studying what he found, then scurried back up to the surface, where his radio would work.

Bob's head popped out of the ground, momentarily startling Mack. He watched his partner's face, and knew before he heard the report that something had gone wrong. Bob spoke into his headset. "Snake Doctor. Intel is bogus. Repeat, intel is bogus. No weapons, and our date is not here."

Jonas frowned at the ground. "Anything?"

Bob nodded at the treeline. "I have three; two viable." The dead guards would have been happy to find that another of their prisoners had died during the night, but neither could be bothered to check on them that morning.

Jonas swore under his breath. This mission would still go down as a failure. They had not found the weapons, or the Senator. Still, he could not leave the other prisoners to rot. "Retrieve," he finally ground out. Through the range finder, Hector watched Bob take a breath of air, as if he were going under water, and then disappear into the bunker again.

Almost a full minute passed before Mack saw a head that definitely was not Bob's come toward the surface. As the man emerged, it was impossible to tell beneath the beard, the months of dirt, and the fear in his eyes, who he was. Mack simply grabbed him and helped the weakened man climb into the clearing. The prisoner immediately ducked his head and shaded his eyes from the daylight. He crouched silent and shaking beside Mack. While they were waiting for Bob's second retrieval, the man managed to open his eyes enough to see the bucket of water, and in a sudden movement Mack would not have thought him capable of, he vaulted the few feet to it and fell face-first amongst the flies. Mack could hear him gulping greedily, and he moved to stop him, but realized the man had been drinking this swill for so long, one more good drink probably wouldn't hurt him.

Another head appeared, and Mack heard Bob's voice. "Come on, man, help us out a little…" Apparently, this guy was even weaker. As Mack registered the long, stringy black hair and the dark beard over sunken cheeks, he wondered how long the guy had been held here. He leaned over to grab an emaciated arm, trying to shield the man's eyes a little – he was already crying from the light. As Bob pushed and Mack pulled, the skinny body that emerged fell sideways into the clearing. He was covered with bruises, and one arm was misshapen near the wrist from an old fracture that had never been set and healed incorrectly.

Bob scrambled up after him. He saw the first prisoner hunched over the bucket of water protectively, eyeing them with distrust. He turned his back to Mack. "There's a canteen in my pack," he said, and Bob felt Mack digging around in it, then felt the canvas container shoved into his hand. He popped the cap off and leaned over the second prisoner. The man was too weak to understand, so Bob dribbled some water over his fingers and pressed them to the man's lips. He sucked greedily, like a hungry baby, and made the connection the next time Bob tried to help him sit up a little and drink from the canteen.

He let the man have two good swallows, and wrenched the canteen easily back. The prisoner's dark eyes focused first on Bob, then wandered to take in Mack, his fellow prisoner, his surroundings, and finally, the body of the guard. He began to shiver. He worked his mouth a long time before sound rasped out. "C-Carlos," he whispered, and tried to push himself up further. "N-needs help."

Bob moved his body a little so that he blocked the prisoner's view of Carlos. Mack had taken the canteen and was trying use it to bribe the first prisoner away from the bucket. Bob looked into the watering, dark eyes. Pools of fear. He spoke quietly, even though he knew time was of the essence. "Don't worry about Carlos. We'll take care of Carlos. Can you tell me your name?"

The man just blinked at him, but suddenly the first prisoner half-crawled, half-jumped across the grass and grabbed the canteen from Mack. He took a long drink and then tilted his head towards the second prisoner. "That's Charlie," he informed them. "If he dies next, I want his shoes."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Well, that was interesting. Counting PMs, I got pretty close to that review goal: Thanks. For the record, Oh Anonymous Ones, I hardly ever make Charlie a weakling. I whump the socks off him, but he takes it like a man. A beautiful, curly-headed, sensitive fistful of man. And is it my fault he never gets the girl? (Okay, maybe it is. This is story #50, though, and I did say it would be special…) Speaking of which...apparently, I need more practice writing, since my last A/N was misinterpreted by almost everyone. What I meant to say should have been divided into two sentences, perhaps. (1) The previous multi-chapter story I wrote, "I Believe I Can Fly", was from a story idea pitched to me by Tanager36. (2) So is this one. So, I have no definite plans to retire. You can either relax, or panic, as it suits you.**

Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…

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**Chapter 2**

Don leaned over his desk, shoulders hunched, and signed another report. He was miserable. No part of his life was right, since Charlie had disappeared six months ago.

He hated paperwork, and here he was, relegated to nothing but paperwork. He craved field duty, even as he knew he couldn't be out there right now. He was a liability to the other agents. He didn't care enough about his own safety to keep others safe.

The first three months, he had taken a leave and pursued all the leads on his own. Charlie had been part of a humanitarian trip led and sponsored by Senator Richland, to El Salvador. Charlie was going to help develop some courses at the University of El Salvador, and assist some native engineers in finding ways to outthink the jungle. The goal was to use its resources while maintaining its integrity. The Senator had flown a team to El Salvador, glad-handed for a few days, and come back to his duties in America. In a month, he had gone back for the team. It was an election year, and he needed the publicity. On the way back, the entire team onboard, the Senator's private plane had gone down in the jungle.

After several hellish days, days Don was sure were the worst in his life, at the time, the wreckage had been found. Bodies of the pilot, copilot, and three team members had been found. Senator Richland, Charlie, and two other team members were missing – and Don began to learn what hell was.

Within a week, he was in El Salvador. Leaving Alan had been difficult. Even though he knew Larry and other family friends would watch out for him, Don wanted to be with him, himself. He knew that Alan was grieving. He feared that Alan believed Charlie was dead, as so many others in the aircraft were. But Don could not entertain that possibility, and Alan was ready to cling to any hope offered him, no matter how unreasonable. He drove Don to the airport himself, holding him tightly in front of the Skycap stand for almost five minutes before he released him.

Fellow team member Colby Granger had even taken all his vacation time, and joined him for a month. He had simply shown up at Don's hotel room in Santa Ana about a week after Don got there, offering to help. Don's Spanish was passable, thanks to his time in the Albuquerque office, and somewhere Colby had become fluent. Between the two of them, they easily found their way in El Salvador. Twice while Colby was there, they thought they had found Charlie -- or someone who would lead them to Charlie. Both times had been false alarms, each one sinking Don into deeper despair. At least by the time Colby left, they knew that there had been survivors of the accident. The Senator and "unnamed others" were being held by militants, El Savadoran rebel insurgents. It was unclear, however, what they hoped to accomplish with the hostages.

Don continued to pursue leads on his own. He began to suspect that some level of the U.S. government was involved; that someone knew more than he and his father were being told. About a month after Colby left, in a move both brave and desperate, Don had tried to infiltrate the group undercover. He still kicked himself for that; for the stupidity, for what he put his father through. He had ended up shot and abandoned in the middle of the jungle himself, and would be dead now if not for a truckload of kind-hearted peasants. After finding his unconscious body in the middle of a rainstorm, they had carted him into the nearest town and taken him to what passed for a hospital.

For almost two weeks he lay in the feverish haze of infection that rendered him totally incapable of saying anything coherent. During that time, both of Alan's sons had been missing. Don would never forgive himself for doing that to his father. They told him now that his shoulder would always give him trouble, even though he would eventually be cleared physically for active duty, but he didn't care about that. The twinges and aches were nothing. The look on his father's face – the twenty years he had aged in the last six months, that was what caused Don pain.

Even though he had used all his vacation time, Colby had taken an unpaid leave and come back to El Salvador. Within days, he had found Don, lying semi-conscious and dehydrated in a dirty grass hut near the edge of the jungle; a peasant hospital. He had gotten Don to a real city, a real hospital. He stayed until Don was strong enough to fly medical transport back to L.A. He had saved Don's life, brought back one of Alan's sons. For the rest of his life, as far as Alan was concerned, Colby could do no wrong.

Now, Don slowly rotated his injured shoulder in its socket, to relieve building pressure. He stood slowly and started for the elevator. It was lunchtime, and his father was meeting him downstairs. Since Don had gone back to light duty a month ago, he tried to have lunch with his father several days a week. One thing about paperwork – at least he had a real schedule. When Don had gone back to work, Alan had picked up some of his activities again, as well. His heart elsewhere, he volunteered at the soup kitchen, consulted with Stan on the occasional project, even went back to book club. The haunted look never left his eyes, though; and his smiles never reached them.

Don rode the lift down toward the lobby and thought of his father's eyes. They were so like Charlie's. Or, rather, Charlie's were like his father's. You could always tell what they were feeling: humor, anger, pain. When Don had come home from El Salvador, and later, the American hospital, he had given up his apartment and moved back to the house. He couldn't look at those eyes and just walk away, not even to "go home". Sometimes, he wondered. How much of the pain he saw in Alan's eyes was only a reflection from his own?

The doors began to open and he sighed, tried to paste a smile on his face. He stepped out of the elevator and saw his father sitting on a bench a few feet away, looking at the floor. Don was focused on him and did not even look at the faces of the men who crowded onto the elevator until one spoke to him. "Agent Eppes. We'll hold the elevator. Get your father and come up to the Director's office with us."

Don looked back into the elevator then, and with a start recognized Robert Tompkins, Director of the National Security Agency. What was the NSA doing at the FBI's L.A. offices? "I'm not on active duty," Don said, missing entirely the reference to Alan.

Tompkins smiled at him, small and grim. He spoke gently. "Agent. Go get your father. You'll both want to hear what I have to say to your boss."

As if he were hit by defibrillator paddles, Don felt his heart leap in his chest. It thumped crazily in his rib cage, seeking sinus rhythm. "Please," he almost cried, locking eyes with one of the most powerful men in America. "Please, tell me. If he's dead, I need to tell my father."

He stood his ground outside the elevator, knees threatening to cut their support any second, until Tompkins took a step forward and spoke again, whispering into Don's ear. "We found him," he said. "He's alive."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: In my continuing debate with The Anonymous One: It is true that in my stories, Charlie has his moments of weakness; as do we all. But he always finds his strength eventually, and that is the story. His strength lies both within himself and in the love of his father and brother. I guess you have helped me discover that I have really written only one story: I just wrote it 50 different ways!**

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 3**

The flight to Washington, D.C. was long, and silent. Each man sat in semi-shock, remembering snippets of the last 12 hours.

Alan tried to concentrate on the mundane. Had he asked the Trellis boys down the street to feed the koi while they were gone? He would have to call as soon as they landed, to make sure. Charlie had stocked the koi pond; it was important that when they brought him home, the koi were healthy.

Then again, maybe he should just call Larry. He would be at the house anyway. Alan remembered calling Charlie's best friend with the news of his rescue. He had begun thinking of the mundane while still in Director Merrick's office, somehow unable to fully grasp the gigantic truth that he would soon have his missing son back. While on the phone with Larry, Alan had asked the physicist to clean up the garage a little, so that Charlie would be able to use it, as soon as he got home. CalSci had emptied Charlie's office after two months, and after storing everything on campus for another two months, had asked Alan to pick it all up. Don had still been recovering from the shoulder wound he had received in El Salvador, so David and Colby had done it for him. Alan had told them just to stack it all in the garage. In the six months Charlie had been missing, Alan had not once stepped foot out there. Now that Charlie was coming home, he wanted to make sure there was still enough room in there for his son to use his blackboards.

He frowned, There was the matter of the bed. Alan knew that he had intended to change the sheets on Charlie's bed, yesterday. Or this morning? It was all such a blur in his memory, now, it had all happened so quickly. After months of agonizingly slow torture, time had suddenly started moving at warp speed. He couldn't remember now if he had taken the time to change the sheets when he and Don had rushed home to pack. What should he do about the bed? Charlie would need rest…

Don sat beside him, oblivious to his distress, watching nothing out a window over which the shade was drawn against a night sky. He was thinking of the photographs they had seen in Director Merrick's office. Tompkins had pulled them from his briefcase while he explained, without explaining, how Charlie and one of Senator Richland's aides had been extracted from El Salvador almost 36 hours earlier. There were a few photographs of the compound where they had been found; mostly interior shots of the cells in which they had been living. They had nearly turned Don's stomach, and he was passing them unwillingly to his father when he came to a photo of Charlie.

For a long, terrifying moment, he was sure there had been a horrible mistake. He had even heard himself say, "That's not my brother," out loud. That, of course, caused his father to look at the photo Don was holding in shaking hands, and he gasped in pain as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. The man in the photo was at least 30 pounds lighter than Charlie – even during finals week, when he always lost five pounds he could ill-afford off his thin frame. His hands were clasped in front of him, the misshapen wrist and bruises on his arms apparent. The long hair might still be curly; it was so dirty and stringy, it was impossible to tell. A heavy beard of several month's growth covered his face. Don's attention kept being drawn back to the eyes. Even in the dim, black-and-white photo, they were dark, bottomless pools of pain.

"Both men were positively identified with dental forensics at Bethsesda," Tompkins assured him. "There was corroboration, as well: Such as, Charlie's appendectomy scar. DNA tests are still pending, but we are sure enough to tell you, now."

Don looked up at him, confused. "Bethesda? He's back in the U.S.?"

Tompkins nodded. "The men were taken directly to Andrews Air Force Base from El Salvador."

With too many emotions to choose from, Don picked anger. He fumed. "Why are we just hearing this now? Why weren't we there to meet him?"

Merrick interrupted. "You heard the Director, Agent Eppes. They wanted to be certain of identity. Would you want to be told he was safe only to find out later it was a terrible mistake?"

Alan had tensed beside him and Don knew that Merrick had hit on what they both feared, even looking at this photo. Maybe it wasn't really Charlie…

Now, staring sightlessly in the direction of the window, Don remembered the photos. He didn't even realize he was crying until Alan pressed a tissue into his hand.

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When he had glanced at his eldest to ask him what he thought they should do about Charlie's bed, Alan had seen the tears rolling down his profile. For the second time that day, he felt as if he had been sucker punched. He searched his pocket for a tissue, and the mundane scattered out of his mind like buckshot.

Finding a tissue, he pressed it into Don's hand and remembered a morning not three months ago, when Don had regained consciousness after surgery on his shoulder. He was crying then, too. He could barely speak, was still so ill that Alan was afraid he might lose him, too…yet he had awoken with Charlie's name on his lips. He had sobbed to his father how sorry he was, quickly becoming so upset that nurses had sedated him again. Even as the drug sank him into unconsciousness again, his lips had moved soundlessly, tears had continued to escape his closed eyes. Alan had provided a tissue then, also. He had snatched one from the box on the bedside table and softly wiped the tears from Don's face, speaking to him quietly and soothingly.

Now, he watched as Don wiped his own tears, and his mind jumped backwards over 20 years. A 15-year-old Donnie had pitched his Little League team to a State Championship, while his family sat proudly in the stands. Alan and Margaret had smiled at each other over 10-year-old Charlie's head, as the youngster cheered for his brother in a frenzy of excitement that silenced the numbers for a little while. The boy's enthusiasm had exhausted them both, starting hours before the game. By the time it had started, they were more than willing to cave to his demands for hot dogs, peanuts, popcorn, soda; anything that would keep him busy. During the "7th inning stretch", he had turned wide eyes to Alan, grabbed his hand and dragged him quickly down the stands. He had thrown up behind them in a trash can, before they reached the bathroom. When he was finished, he had turned a sweaty face up to his father and asked anxiously about the game. "WhatdidImiss?", he had worried.

His boys. They had always been each other's biggest fans, even though they had forgotten that for a while.

Now, Alan snaked an arm around Don's shoulders and squeezed. His heart swelled when his son allowed his head to sink onto his father's chest. He whispered into Don's hair. "It's all right, now," he said. "Three months ago, I thought I had lost you both. Now I have you both back." Alan sighed, and squeezed again. "There is not a man alive who will convince me there is no God, or that He has no mercy."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 4**

_**SIX MONTHS EARLIER…**_

When the plane went down, Charlie was sleeping and almost missed the whole thing.

The month in El Salvador had been exhausting, with not even a full day off from his various obligations, and had taken its toll. The last two days he had fallen ill with what had to be the flu. Fever alternated with chills, his muscles and head ached, and the mere thought of food would catapult Charlie to the nearest _baño_.

He almost didn't take the Senator's plane back to the States. Fall Semester didn't begin for another two weeks; he could rest for a few days and catch a commercial flight back. In the end, the thought of a ten-hour flight sitting behind a screaming child convinced Charlie to stick with the Senator's team.

One of the other men on the humanitarian mission was a doctor, and he nearly grounded Charlie himself at the airport. He did suggest that Charlie take a later flight, but Charlie hedged, saying that he'd already checked into it. He didn't correct the doctor's assumption that all flights in the near future were already fully booked; he just gratefully accepted the medication that insured he would sleep through most of the trip.

The mild sedative also filled his mind with strange dreams. When the aircraft lost first one engine, then the other, and began to descend through the treetops of the dense jungle, the popping of his ears and dropping of his stomach merged in with them. In a haze he weakly fought off the hands of the doctor who sat next to him, when the man first shook him, then lightly slapped his face. "Charlie! We're going down!" He felt the doctor pull at his seat belt to see if it was fastened, then a hand on his neck shoved his head down between his knees. "Get in crash position!"

Charlie still wasn't sure he was awake, when the aircraft hit the ground and tobogganed through the jungle. Both wings ripped off immediately, and his body lunged forward against the seatbelt. Charlie's head hit the seat in front of him, and a blinding pain caused him to think, "Would that hurt if I were asleep?" Before he could reason out an answer, he was thrown hard into the wall next to him. This time when his head hit, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

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He awoke to the light drizzle of rain on his face, and something else. A repetitive impact on his ribs. He was leaning back in the seat again, and he opened his eyes to find himself facing the seat next to him. The doctor who had saved his life stared back at him with vacant, lifeless eyes, a piece of twisted metal protruding from his chest.

Charlie's own chest protested another impact, and he cautiously rotated his head until he found the source: The muzzle of a machine gun, which appeared to be attached to a pair of brown hands. He tracked the hands up to camouflage-covered arms, and further, into a weathered, curious face. A soldier was shoving his weapon into Charlie's ribs, trying to determine weather or not he was alive.

At first Charlie was relieved. Soldiers had found the wreckage, already. They would be safe, rescued. He even smiled at the man. The soldier frowned, pushed his weapon at him again and started screaming at him in Spanish. "Get up!", he was saying. "Into the jungle!" The man leaned over and released Charlie's seat belt, then roughly pulled him to his feet. As he was pushed past the doctor's body, into a forming line of the other survivors, Charlie began to suspect that these soldiers were not here with rescue on their minds.

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Charlie stumbled through the thick jungle in a haze, sick and confused, aided by Martin. The older man, a retired high school ESL instructor who had been part of the mission, had always reminded him of Alan. There was slight physical resemblance, but the age and attitude were right, and Charlie silently accepted his help now. There were moments, during the wet and anguished night, when he started to believe Martin was Alan.

At some point, Charlie had received a jagged gash along his jawline. Remarkably, the blood that flowed from this was the only blood he lost because of the accident. He had found a golf-ball size knot on his forehead when he pushed back his hair the first time, and it was getting difficult to see from his left eye. It seemed to be swelling shut. Dizziness from the blows to his head complicated his flu symptoms, and twice Martin steadied him while he tried to lean away from whatever path they were on, and vomited. He hadn't eaten in two days, and the second experience produced only bile and dry heaves. Weakened, he dropped to his knees on the darkened earth, and watched helplessly as a soldier blamed Martin for it. The older man took a vicious rifle butt to the abdomen, but managed to stay upright. He pulled Charlie to his feet and dragged him on through the jungle.

By morning, the men were on a crude dirt road that cut through the trees, which were becoming less thick. The sun was still rising when they came to an encampment in a small clearing. More soldiers huddled around small fires, drinking from tin mugs of coffee. They raised their voices in rapid and indignant Spanish at the appearance of the four foreign strangers.

The soldiers who had brought them through the jungle argued with the ones hunched over the fires for a while, until they seemed to come to an agreement. Charlie and the other three Americans were led to a tree near the edge of the clearing. They stood, shivering, as they were roped together. Eventually, a grinning, toothless soldier kicked Senator Richland's feet out from under him. The rebels laughed as he toppled and dragged the other three down like dominoes.

Working together in silent, intuitive cooperation, they managed to all reach sitting positions on the wet ground. When they did, the grinning soldier used more rope to secure them to the tree.

Although Charlie wasn't yet hungry, he heard the stomachs of the other men grumble as they sat and watched the soldiers eat breakfast. Charlie sat with his eyes closed, trying not to smell the odors of sweaty men and whatever it was they were eating, and wished for water.

He actually slept for a while, his back propped against the Senator's back. His head lolled on Martin's shoulder, and the sun was high in the sky when he felt it jerked erect. A soldier he had not seen before had a fistful of his hair – literally. When he backed away from Charlie a few steps, he saw dark brown hairs floating from the man's hand onto the ground. The man stared at Charlie and raised his weapon. Charlie felt a stab of fear when another soldier approached with filthy rags, and blindfolded them all.

"I demand to speak with your leader," Charlie heard Senator Richland say in perfect Spanish. His words were quickly followed by a pained grunt, and it wasn't hard to determine what answer he had been given.

It was difficult to tell what was happening, blindfolded. Charlie felt hands on him, and he felt the rope being pulled away from his body. His hands were left tied. Finally, he was jerked to his feet so suddenly that a sound of surprise escaped him, and he waited to be punished. He was only shoved roughly from behind, and he understood that they were being told to walk. Behind his blindfold, Charlie was convinced they were about to be executed. He thought they must be walking toward the road. If they were walking further into the jungle, he would have encountered more resistance from nature.

As it was, he tripped several times, falling into whoever was in front of him. He was dismayed to discover how much blindness affected his judgement. His numbers abandoned him, and he soon lost track of how many steps he had taken. Losing his numbers affected his equilibrium more than the blindfold, and Charlie felt himself start to panic at the same time that he felt hands on his shoulders.

He was pressed down, onto his knees. He felt the bodies of other men kneeling on each side. Their shoulders touched. As Charlie waited for the impact, it bothered him that he didn't know who touched him on the left, and the right. He waited for a bullet to the brain, and couldn't stop thinking that a man should know with whom he was dying.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: For an Anonymous Reviewer, you're very demanding. FOR THE RECORD, I do not intend to make us go through the entire six months. There will be stories from the past alternating with stories from the present. The past stories are intended to show, for one thing, how Stockholm Syndrome worms its way in...**

**Doesn't anybody trust me, anymore?**

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 5**

_**PRESENT DAY…**_

The doctor was very sympathetic, but Alan had no patience for him.

He and Don had arrived at Dulles in the middle of the night. They had taken a taxi directly to Bethesda, and had been denied entrance. They would not be allowed to see Charlie until they spoke with a staff physician in the morning. They were directed to patient-family temporary living quarters just a few blocks away. Robert Tompkins had arranged for their stay.

Sleep had not even been attempted. The two men had checked in, cleaned up a little and gone right back to the hospital. They sat in the cafeteria and waited for the doctor to arrive. He finally did, and escorted them into his office. This was not where Alan needed to be. "When can we see Charlie?", he demanded.

The physician waited for the men to sit. It soon became apparent that wasn't going to happen. "I need to tell you about your son's condition," he finally said, standing with them and meeting Don's glare head-on.

Alan unconsciously moved closer to his eldest. "We know…that he was held in some horrible conditions. He must be malnourished, dehydrated."

"That's correct. He's had some fractured ribs at some point. He also had a broken wrist, which healed badly."

"We saw photos," muttered Don.

The doctor kept his attention mostly on the younger man. The father was doing most of the talking, but the other one looked the most dangerous. "That will need to be corrected surgically. Re-broken, and set. We can recommend orthopedic surgeons in your area. It's not an emergency, and Charlie needs time to heal from his other wounds before we worry about that."

"What other wounds?"

The doctor glanced at Alan. "Mr. Eppes…you need to understand…Charlie was held against his will for six months. He was, at the least, terrorized. Quite possibly, at some point, tortured. He will have significant challenges reassimilating to society."

"He'll be fine," Alan assured him. "We'll make sure Charlie gets the help he needs."

The doctor sighed. "Let me give you an example. Charlie and the other hostage were brought directly here after their rescue. They were cleaned up, and Charlie needed some IV nutrition and hydration. He's been tolerating clear liquids well, and we're moving him to a soft diet with breakfast this morning; his nurse is probably disconnecting his IV as we speak. Anyway, we offered the men an opportunity to talk right away if they desired. Frankly, we expected them to do exactly what they did – fall into bed. They were both beyond exhausted, even though they slept most of the way back from El Salvador. Charlie spent a few hours in his bed, and then rolled his IV stand into the corner and sank down to the floor. He's done this both nights that he's been here. He sleeps leaning against the wall, safely tucked into a corner so that no-one can come up behind him."

Don winced and Alan sighed sadly. "Has he talked to anyone, yet?" He spoke a little nervously. "About what happened, I mean?"

The doctor walked to his desk and picked up a file, opened it and studied it for a minute. "We actually have a psychiatrist on staff, Dr. Enderil, who specializes in this sort of situation. He spent some time with Charlie last night, but frankly, I haven't had time to consult with him yet this morning. I'm sure he will have further recommendations for you. You will want to meet with him."

"We will," Alan assured him. "Later. We'd like to see Charlie now. I'm sure he's been asking for us."

The doctor leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms across his chest, still holding the file. He regarded them seriously. "Actually, Mr. Eppes, he hasn't."

Neither Eppes had been expecting that one. Alan was stunned into silence, and Don was shocked into finding his voice. "What? He hasn't asked about either of us, at all?"

Charlie's doctor nodded slowly. "This is what I've been trying to tell you. Any decision Charlie has made for himself in the last six months has probably been punished in some way. He hasn't asked for anything. Not so much as water. He gratefully and politely accepts what we offer – everything we offer. It's as if he's afraid to say 'no' to anything, as well. When we offer him a choice, say…. 'Would you like orange gelatin, or cherry?', he cannot make a decision. The first time a nurse asked him a question like that, he sank to his knees in front of her and crossed his arms over his head. He was obviously expecting to be hit."

Don involuntarily shuddered, and Alan made a noise of despair. The doctor continued gently. "This will all improve, almost certainly, and probably more rapidly than you'd think. It's just important that you honestly face what your son and brother has been through, and try to react to his cues, for a while." He looked at Alan sympathetically and threw him a bone. "When I spoke to him last night, I offered him information about you. I said that you were coming to take him home, soon. It did matter to him. All he said with his voice was 'thank-you', but I cannot even hope to interpret all I saw in his eyes, and body language."

Alan smiled a little. "Charlie has always had expressive eyes. Can't hide a thing…"

"That's good." The doctor seemed a little more positive. "Most of the staff have made similar comments, and as I said, I saw it myself last night. That means that the Charlie you've always known is still in there, somewhere." He watched Alan nod silently for a moment before he continued. "The last thing we want to do is make Charlie feel trapped here. We'll probably release him in a few days, when he's back on a regular diet. In the meantime, now that he's no longer connected to an IV, you can leave the hospital with him for a few hours if you'd like – as he tolerates. He won't tell you, so you'll need to be alert for signs of tiredness, or distress. There's a barbershop just a few blocks away. Perhaps you could take him for a haircut."

Don interrupted. "I thought you said you cleaned him up."

"We did," answered the doctor. "We washed all that hair, but it's still there. We knew his family would be here soon, and you would know how long it usually is, whether or not he usually wears a beard…. We didn't want to do anything he could perceive as threatening. Did you bring any of his clothes, today?"

Alan nodded again and indicated a small bag propped in a chair near the door. "Yes. I thought he might be more comfortable in his own things. I brought a few pair of sweatpants, and some t-shirts. He often sleeps in them…. I even brought some socks, and tennis shoes."

This time the doctor nodded. "Those will work fine. As you are no doubt aware, he has lost a great deal of weight. It will take a few months to put it back on him."

A burst of inappropriate laughter escaped Don, embarrassing him, startling Alan and interesting the doctor, who looked back at him. "I'm sorry," he tried to explain. "I was just thinking of my father's cooking. Charlie could have the weight back in a week."

Alan just stared at him for a few seconds, then looked back at Charlie's doctor. "Please. I know it's important that you try to prepare us, but do you really think you can? I'll be able to concentrate better on everything you're saying if you just let me see my son." He shot a sideways glance at Don. "And my other son seems to be cracking under the strain, as well."

The doctor straightened, dropped the file he had been holding on the desk and started for the door. "Follow me," he began to say, until he realized he didn't need to encourage them. Don was already holding the door open for him.

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Charlie sat cross-legged on the bed, which was made with military precision. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him. The first thing Don noticed, with some relief, was that the bruises so apparent in the photograph taken only two days ago were already fading considerably.

The second was that Charlie's hair, when clean, was still curly. He had it gathered into a short pony tail in an attempt to keep the mass of curls tamed. Some of the shorter strands around his face had escaped, though. The effect was startlingly…Charlie. It might have been overwhelming, had not the heavy beard ruined the effect.

Don followed Alan's lead and stopped a few feet from the bed. The doctor stood behind them, watching. Charlie began to wring his hands a little. For all of the doctor's warnings, he was the one who spoke first. "Hello," he said, almost shyly. "How are you?"

Alan fought for control. "So much better, now, son. Now that you're with us again."

Charlie's eyes flickered to Don, and filled with fear. "You're all right."

It was a statement, not a question, and Don found it confusing.

"Of course I'm all right, Buddy."

The nickname had slipped out, unintentionally. As it floated across the room, Charlie winced, then climbed carefully off the bed. He took one step towards his family, still staring at Don. "I thought it might be another elaborate joke…all of this. When the doctor said you were coming, I thought I might still be in El Salvador." He took another tentative step, and Alan reached over to touch Don's arm. He didn't so much want to hold him back, as he wanted to be held back himself. Not rushing to crush Charlie in his arms was the hardest thing he had ever done. Charlie tilted his head, and the fear flashed in his eyes again. "Am I?", he whispered. "Is this El Salvador?"

Don strained against Alan's hand. "No. God, no, Charlie. It's over. You're home."

Charlie tilted his head the other way, confused now himself. "But I saw you go down," he said, and an electric shock went through Don. "Salazar brought you to a hut, in the jungle, He made me watch, from the van parked on the dirt road. I w-wanted to yell, b-but he gagged me. He shot you, and- and…" Charlie's breath was beginning to hitch. "He kicked you. When he came b-back to the v-van, he said you were d-d-dead. He made me watch."

God in heaven. For the last three months, Charlie had believed his brother was dead; just as Don had feared his was. On opposite sides of the world, their heartbreak had been the same. A tear rolled from Don's eye as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He opened the front, then pulled down his t-shirt far enough so that Charlie could see part of the scar on his shoulder. "I wasn't dead," he explained, needlessly. "Colby came and found me. He got me home."

Charlie took several consecutive, slow steps, until he was close enough to Don to reach out and touch the scar. He jerked back his hand and raised wide, unbelieving eyes to his brother. "You're real," he said, wonderingly. He looked at Alan. "You're both really here."

Doctors be damned. Alan couldn't wait any longer. He took his hand from Don's arm and slowly reached toward Charlie. "Little One. Come to me."

His voice broke at the end, and Charlie reached out to touch his face. "Don't cry, Papa," he said, and then he took the final step that brought him into the circle of Alan's arms.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 6**

_**41/2 to 6 MONTHS AGO…**_

Charlie was in the abandoned tenement house for around 45 days, as close as he could figure.

He knew that it was abandoned, because every few days, it was his turn to go down the hall and use the restroom, and there was never anyone in the hallway. There was still running water in the building, but it was always cold, and only a trickle. There was never enough to actually flush the toilet. If Carlos was the guard watching him, Charlie could take the time to try to brush his teeth with his finger. Sometimes, Carlos even let him bring an old rag along, and attempt a sponge bath. When another guard went with him, though, he learned quickly not to try.

After Senator Richland, his aide Jerry, Martin and Charlie had been shoved into the back of a van and driven for what seemed like several hours, on that first day, Charlie had lost them all. He had fallen asleep in the van, then been jerked out alone and brought into this building. He didn't know where they had taken everyone else. It was possible they were here in this building – even this apartment – but Charlie didn't think so.

There were others being held here, he knew that. The apartment had at least three rooms. The guards huddled around a radio in what must be the living room, smoking cigars and trading political stories. Charlie and two other men were in one empty bedroom, where they slept on the floor. One was Russian, the other a native of El Salvador. The north wall separated them from more hostages; probably in another bedroom. Sometimes, when it seemed worth the risk, Charlie would tap, and then receive, Morse code messages on the wall. There were two Irishmen next door, and another Russian.

He wondered often how everyone had ended up here, and where his friends were. One day, as he was making his first trip down the hall to the bathroom, he made the mistake of asking a guard. The man had leveled his gun at Charlie, screamed obscenities, and tried to shoot him – but the weapon jammed. Incensed, the guard then used it as a baseball bat. That was the first time Charlie's wrist was broken. He had been trying to protect his head with it, and the butt of the rifle cracked just like his wrist, when they connected.

Later, back in the bare room with his two new roomies, the Russian had tried to set Charlie's wrist. Charlie felt inadequate in some way when the pain proved too great, and he refused to let him. He did not want to cry out and attract the further attention of the guard. Besides, he reasoned, there was nothing to splint his wrist in place once it was set. In addition to the three men, the room held only one copy of National Geographic from 1972, in English.

Where it had come from was a mystery. Why any of the soldiers had decided to leave it for them to read – over and over – was never known. About a week after his fateful trip to the bathroom, Charlie watched Jose, his El Salvadoran roommate, thumbing through the pages once more. It was actually Charlie's turn – the men passed on the magazine every time they were fed; usually twice a day, back in that first apartment. Charlie had already read every article so many times, he could quote from them all, so he let Jose keep it. The small Hispanic man was using it to work on his English.

Charlie sat on the floor, leaning against a wall, and decided to work on his Russian. He began to whisper with Vladimir, the other hostage. Soon they were in a heated discussion about chess. Their low voices had raised a little and Jose looked up, worried they would bring the guards in. He asked what they were talking about, what was so important. Vladimir's Spanish was poor, so Charlie tried to translate. It was more difficult than he thought it would be. To begin with, his Russian was rudimentary at best. Vladimir would speak, Charlie would think in English, then rephrase what he said in more elementary Russian, and check to make sure he understood. When he had it as well as he was going to get it, he would think in English again, then rephrase everything in Spanish for Jose. He had not given his mind such a serious workout in weeks, and Charlie found the entire experience strangely elating. He started to grin a little, and Jose shook his head and muttered "_muy loco_" into the magazine. Charlie laughed out loud, which frightened them all a little – even him. The guards were listening to mariachi music on the radio that day, though, so no-one heard him.

After that day, Vladimir and Charlie spoke of chess often. They tried to conduct a fantasy game in their heads, without a board or pieces. Two intelligent men should have been able to do that, Charlie thought, but they gave up after a few days. They could never agree on which pieces had been left where. Charlie worried that his mind was dulling beyond repair. When he and Vladimir gave up on the game, he sank into a depression that lasted for days. He didn't speak to the two men in his room, or tap on the wall to the other hostages. He stopped joining in the morning calisthenics Vladimir led each day. He never even looked at the National Geographic pictures, anymore.

Finally Jose approached him with the magazine. Charlie was curled in a corner of the room, and Jose squatted near him and tried to use his fractured English. He offered Charlie the magazine. "Jou small ze pages make. Zat yerks, _si?_"

Charlie blinked at him. The longer he sat in this corner, the more tired he became. "What? _Que_?"

Jose tried again. This time he used the magazine to gesture toward Vladimir, who was watching the show with interest. "Jou. Bode jou. _Senor Charrye y Senor V_. Play yame."

Charlie was getting a headache. "_En espanol_," he said, a trifle sharply. Jose switched to his own language then, and Charlie was able to figure it out. Jose was willing to let them tear up part of the magazine, if he and Vladimir could use it to make a chess board and pieces. He would watch them, and they could teach him the game.

Charlie was moved by his generosity. He explained the proposal to Vladimir, who smiled when he finally understood. Charlie crept across the floor to be closer to him, and they spent two days whispering sporadically, trying to decide the best way to do it. There was only one magazine. They had to get this right the first time.

They finally decided just to make the pieces: 16 from the darkest photos in the magazine, 16 from the white margins. With nothing to write with, they couldn't think of a way to mark up a board. When they each had 16 scraps of paper, Charlie would hold one up and name it: "Pawn," he would say, three times – once in English, once in Russian, and once in Spanish. Then he and Vladimir would do their best to create identical shapes out of the paper. It was difficult and painful for Charlie; his wrist had not yet healed completely. By the time they got to "Knight", he was wondering if it was really going to work. Still, they finished their pieces and tried to set them up in an imaginary square on the filthy carpet.

Charlie was immediately frustrated. One of Vladimir's Pawns looked like a Rook to him. The experiment had proven stressful, and he had a headache. Soon, a tri-language argument broke out, and the men were each too invested to notice that one of the guards had come in and was standing over them, When Salazar leaned over and blew the painstakingly-made pieces around the room with a _whoosh_ of putrid breath, Charlie lost it. He scrambled to his feet, fighting off the restraining hands of his two roommates, and lunged at Salazar. "Why did you do that?", he protested angrily. He was still several inches away from making any contact with the guard when Salazar brought the butt of his gun up under Charlie's chin, and flipped him efficiently onto his back. Stunned, Charlie lay on the floor like a displaced potato bug, until the guard almost casually started kicking him in the ribs. When everyone in the room heard one crack, the potato bug curled into himself, and the other two men risked protesting.

The kicks continued until another guard entered the room to check out the noise. He pulled Salazar back and demanded an explanation. Salazar said they were devising some sort of escape plan, and Jose jumped in to explain the bits of paper; the ridiculous game the _gringos_ wanted to play. Carlos stared at them silently for a few moments, then told Salazar to remove all the paper from the room. He stared down at Charlie, who lay in a fetal position, arms over his head, while Salazar chased Pawns and Knights all over the room. After a few minutes and no more discussion, the guards left.

Vladimir and Jose tried to help Charlie as silently as they could. A few days earlier, the guards had dumped a pile of second-hand clothing in the corner. There was no telling where it had come from – there were women's dresses, and children's shorts among the odd t-shirt and sock that could actually be used by one of the hostages. Now, Vladimir selected a dress and ripped the material into one long strip. He used it to bind Charlie's ribs. Charlie tried to keep his grunts of pain to himself, and as soon as they were done with him, he crawled slowly and miserably back to his corner.

They were not fed at all the next day. The Russian on the other side of the wall tapped out the news that the Irishmen were gone; they had been taken away at breakfast – a breakfast Charlie, Jose and Vladimir were denied. Charlie didn't even bother tapping back a message.

The next day, when the door opened and admitted two guards, they had shiny new weapons, and big smiles. It was easy to determine for what they had traded the Irish hostages. One of the guards tossed a loaf of bread on the floor for them to fight over, then stepped aside as a third guard, Carlos, entered. Charlie was still in his corner, lying on the floor. Carlos approached him and stared down an him. Charlie regarded Carlos through hooded, pain-clouded eyes, and was frightened when Carlos leaned over and reached toward him. Then, he was surprised when the guard helped him prop himself in a sitting position against the wall. Carlos straightened, smiled, and reached into a deep pocket of his cargo pants.

Charlie's eyes grew wide and confused when a travel-sized game of chess was dropped on the floor next to him. He looked at it, then at Vladimir and Jose, who seemed just as confused as he was. Charlie looked back up at Carlos, who was still smiling. "Find for you," he said, in nearly perfect English. "Can play, now. _Si?_"

Charlie nodded dumbly, automatically whispered, "_Gracias…_".

"_De nada_," said Carlos. He turned then, walked to the other guards and left the room with them, closing the door. The three hostages stared at it as if they expected it to turn into a fire-breathing dragon. That would make as much sense as anything else.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 7**

**_PRESENT DAY…_**

Charlie stepped away from his father long before Alan wanted him to. He looked worriedly at Don. "Does it hurt?"

Don dropped the small duffle he was holding onto the floor and drew Charlie into an embrace himself, then, to prove that it didn't. He was careful to keep the hug brief. "It's fine," he said, as he drew back and met Charlie's eyes again. He grinned. "Well…at least it will be." He gestured to the bag. "Dad brought some of your things. Do you want to change?"

Charlie's eyes followed Don's hand. He looked at the bag, then raised his eyes again and looked nervously past Don's shoulder, at the doctor. In that brief moment, his eyes had filled with confusion, and fear. Even though the doctor had warned them of Charlie's inability to make the simplest of decisions, Don hadn't been ready.

The doctor took a few steps forward and leaned over to pick up the bag. "I'll take this into the bathroom, Charlie. I'm going to leave some things on the counter for you, and I want you to change into them."

Charlie nodded. "Yes, sir." When the doctor started for the bathroom, Charlie glanced apologetically at his father, then followed. He stood in the doorway and watched the doctor unpack some things. When his physician left the bathroom, Charlie disappeared inside, hesitantly closing the door.

The doctor approached Alan and Don. "That went better than I had hoped."

Don snorted. "You're kidding, right? He can't even pick out his own t-shirt!"

"True. But he talked to you, and initiated both conversation, and physical touch. I'm encouraged." He smiled at Alan, who beamed happily. He had touched both of his sons, today. What more could he want? The doctor continued. "If you leave the hospital, just let them know at the nursing station." He half-turned to leave, then turned back. He glanced uneasily at Don. "You might want to knock on the door in a few minutes and remind him it's all right to come out. Yesterday he stayed in the bathroom almost an hour because he thought the nurse had left him there as punishment."

He really did leave then, passing a nurse in the doorway who was delivering breakfast. She placed a tray on the bedside table and paused at the bathroom. She knocked and called out. "Breakfast is here, Charlie. When you're ready, come out and eat, please." The door opened immediately, and she started a little.

Charlie dropped his eyes. "_Lo ciento_," he said quickly, and her eyes darkened in sympathy.

She spoke gently. "You can speak English now, Charlie. And don't be sorry. Everything is all right." She glanced at Alan and Don, who were still standing near the end of the bed. "I'm sure it's good to have your family here."

Charlie raised his eyes and smiled shyly. "Yes," he said, simply.

The nurse dimpled in return. "I won't keep you from breakfast. Scrambled eggs for you, this morning!"

"Thank-you," Charlie anwered, sincerely. After the nurse had assured him he was welcome, she left to finish passing out breakfast to the remainder of her patients. As the door swung shut behind her, Charlie approached the tray of food, passing Don and Alan by a wide margin. He lifted off the plate cover. Surprising both his brother and his father, he then picked up the plate and hurried over to a corner of the room. He stood with his back to the wall. Holding the plate a few inches from his face, he began to scoop scrambled eggs into his mouth with his fingers.

Don looked at Alan, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Looking back at Charlie, he made a suggestion, trying not to word it in a way that would require a decision. "Son, you can sit down to eat. I'm a little tired of standing, myself. Why don't we…I mean…let's all have a seat. Don and I will take these chairs, and you can sit on the bed and finish your breakfast. There's probably a fork on the tray…"

Charlie stopped scooping food off the plate and blinked a few times. "Oh," he finally said. "Right. Someone invented those things to eat with, didn't they?" He smiled a little, embarrassed.

Don thought he was probably blushing behind his beard. Charlie's small attempt at humor was reassuring. Don smiled at him as he followed his father's example and took a seat. "It's just going to take a little time, Buddy. Don't worry about it."

Charlie carried the plate back to the bedside table. He replaced it on the tray, and climbed up to sit cross-legged on the bed again. He picked up the fork and looked a little lost. "Time," he echoed. "I know all about doing time."

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Charlie looked at Alan as if he was crazy. Then the expression on his face changed as he considered the possibility that _he_ was the one who was crazy. Neither his father nor his brother seemed to think it was that radical of an idea. He snuck a hand behind his head and tugged at his short ponytail. "You want us to go outside?"

Alan tried to smile reassuringly. "The doctor said it would be all right. Actually, he suggested it. He said there is a barber just down the street…you could get a hair cut, a shave…"

The hand dropped the pony tail and crept around to the front of his face, and pulled at his beard. "This itches."

"Exactly," Alan nodded. He glanced at Don, then returned his attention to Charlie. "Your brother and I haven't shaved for a while ourselves. Maybe they'll have time to fit us all in."

Charlie looked at Don, who thought he still looked a little nervous. "You won't make me go alone?"

Don hastened to reassure him. "No, no, Charlie. Dad and I aren't letting you out of our sight for a while!" Charlie blanched, and Don felt terrible. That had come out sounding like Charlie was still a hostage. He sighed. "I'm sorry. I just meant that we're so happy to have you back...we'll want to be with you for…the foreseeable future."

Charlie didn't look completely convinced, but he got off the bed anyway. "Okay," he said, and stood frozen in one spot. "Okay," he said again. Alan and Don both stood and waited for him to join them. Charlie still stood without moving. He scratched at his beard. "Okay, then." Adding another syllable seemed to cut something loose inside him, and he started walking.

When he was within a few inches of them, he suddenly stopped and looked at Don. His eyes grew suspiciously bright, but no tears dropped. He looked directly into Don's eyes and spoke softly. "Why were you in El Salvador?"

Don looked back at him, shocked speechless. Alan answered for him. "He was looking for you, Charlie." He spoke with both pride and terror. "He was there for three months; the last one in hospitals after he was shot."

Charlie's eyes widened. "Three months? You did that for me?"

The doctor had said to respond to Charlie's cues. If that wasn't the cue for another hug, Don was more out of touch with the physical side of affection than he thought. Before he could reconsider, he stepped closer to his brother and embraced him. He held Charlie more securely this time, and longer. He looked at his father over Charlie's shoulder and answered. "Not entirely, Buddy. I did it for all of us."

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If the barber wondered why his customer looked like a refugee, he didn't mention it. If he further wondered why a grown man needed his father to stand behind him during a shave and a haircut, he had the grace to keep that to himself, as well. "How much you want off?", he asked.

Charlie locked eyes with his father in the mirror.

"About half of it," Alan volunteered. Then he grunted as he thought of something. He took his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it. He pulled out Charlie's CalSci photo ID and offered it to the barber. "Here. He likes to wear it this way."

Charlie was still looking at him in the mirror. "You have my faculty identification in your wallet?"

Alan shrugged. "We don't have enough recent photos. You boys might want to remember that, on my next birthday. I...I just wanted you with me. That's actually not a bad shot."

The barber turned to place the ID on a counter where he could refer to it during the haircut, and Charlie dropped his eyes. "I missed you, too," he whispered.

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Back at the hospital an hour later, looking much more like himself – with the addition of the scar on his jawline, from the injury he had received in the crash – Charlie made his first decision.

It was apparent to Alan that his son was tired, and overwhelmed. He probably hadn't seen so many people in six months. Still, Alan hesitated to go back to Charlie's hospital room. It was dreary, and small. Not at all what a man who had been confined by force needed.

Alan veered instead into a sunroom near the end of the corridor, and his sons followed. There was no-one else there, and Alan looked around at the two tables, the crammed shelving, the assorted chairs near the bank of windows. "We could finish this puzzle," he said. Someone had started one and left it on a table. He wandered closer to the shelves and noticed a few games. He recognized one and turned, excited, to Charlie. "There's a chess set. We can play chess."

Charlie looked at him with a horror Alan did not understand. "No. No. No." He wrapped his arms around his middle. "I don't want to play chess."

Alan and Don were both surprised at his adamant reaction, given what they had witnessed so far. Don was a little worried their excursion into the world had been too much for Charlie. Don was standing near the other table, which was littered with magazines. He searched through the titles quickly. _Woman's Day, Ladies' Home Journal, Family Circle_...there had to be something beside women's magazines in this mess! Finally he found a couple and held them up like a prize. "Here! I found some things we can read, Charlie." Don forgot himself in his worry and offered Charlie a choice. "Which do you want? _Smithsonian_, or _National Geographic_?"

Charlie turned quickly at his voice, and his eyes got round, and filled with terror. "Oh, my God," he choked. He whirled back around and staggered blindly away from the magazines Don was waving like flags. Halfway to the doorway, he stopped. He groaned, arms still wrapped around his ribs, and bumped unseeing into his father. He didn't back away, but accepted Alan's nearness.

Then he leaned forward slightly at the waist, and threw up all over Alan's shoes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 8**

_**3 to 41/2 MONTHS EARLIER…**_

I was around Day 30 when Charlie decided that Carlos had disappeared. The guards changed often, but Carlos had never been gone more than two days, before. Charlie waited anxiously for him to return. The other guards were more like Salazar: Cruel just for sport, out of boredom.

Sometimes, on days Charlie was taken out of the apartment down the hall to the bathroom, Carlos would even talk to him. He was a second-generation rebel. His father had been held without cause by the regime in power, for most of Carlos' childhood. He described to Charlie the new wounds he would see on his father every time they allowed a visit. His father died in prison when Carlos was 15, and he had run into the jungle looking for a rebel camp. For Carlos, his life had been all about avenging his father's death. He had noble ideas and progressive politics. He didn't hurt Charlie…and Charlie missed the guard when he disappeared.

It was Day 45, according to the blackboard in his head, when Salazar came into the room carrying a polyester "Leisure Suit" from the 1970s. He jerked Charlie to his feet and shoved the suit at him. "Put on!" he commanded, scowling, "You go home tonight."

Charlie's heart stopped. He counted several seconds before it lurched again in his chest. They were releasing him? Why? Charlie clutched at the suit. He was sure the Irishmen had negotiated their release for guns, and almost two weeks ago, Jose had left. He didn't think he had gone home, though…Charlie shuddered, trying not to remember the sound of gunfire that reached his ears only minutes after Jose was dragged screaming from the room.

"Go soon!", spat Salazar, turning to leave the room. "Put on now!"

Charlie stood awkwardly in the center of the room for a moment. Finally, he heard Vladimir talking to him from his seat on the floor. His English had improved greatly during his captivity. "Someone buy you back!" He smiled, genuinely pleased for Charlie, but there was a tinge of sadness in it as well. "I alone soon. Maybe move Gustav back this room."

Charlie nodded. "Maybe," he agreed. He quickly changed into the suit, which was at least four sizes too large. He left his t-shirt on under the jacket. When he was finished, he paced the room a little and waited. He walked toward his corner. Should he take anything with him? Where would they take him – the American embassy? How had his release been arranged?

He spied the small travel-size chess set in the corner and stood over it. He leaned over and picked it up. He regarded it, his mouth working. It was his chess set. Carlos had given it to him. He wanted it, worse than he had wanted a dog when he was nine. He shook himself, and took a deep breath. _Be rational, Charlie,_ he thought. _Use your head. Better yet, use your heart. You're going home, and Vladimir isn't_.

Reluctantly he crossed the room to where Vladimir sat. He forced himself to hold out the chess set. "You keep it," he said in Russian. "In case they move Gustav in here."

Vladimir snatched the game with a ferocity that startled Charlie a little, and held it to his chest, "Thank-you, Charlie. Thank-you." The door started to open, and Vladimir continued quickly. "You will remember message to wife, yes?"

Charlie nodded. After the Irishmen had gotten out, the remaining men – including poor solitary Gustav, through the north wall – had memorized each other's contact information and one brief message. That way, if one of them got out, he could contact the families of the others. Charlie had been last to offer his message; he had thought about it for almost a week. In the end, unable to think of anything better, he had settled for a simple, "I love you both", to be delivered to Alan. He knew his Dad would pass on the message to Don.

Salazar roughly grabbed Charlie's arm, near his bad wrist, and jerked. "Come!" Charlie hissed but bit back a yelp, and felt his heartrate escalate as he was spun around and Salazar began to blindfold him.

Last time this had happened, it didn't turn out so well.

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This time wouldn't turn out so well, either.

As Charlie was being led blindly from his home of the last month-an-a-half, he stumbled repeatedly. Once, he walked right into a wall so hard, he feared he may have broken your nose. Without thinking, he brought his tied hands toward his face. Salazar – or someone else – must have thought he was reaching for the blindfold.. "Too much trouble," Charlie heard someone grumble in Spanish. He did not recognize the voice, but he had no problem identifying a fist to his gut. He doubled over, banging his head on the wall again, and heard almost maniacal laughter. Another fist threw an uppercut to his chin, straightening him back up, and he cried out as someone made contact with the rib Salazar had cracked over the paper chess set. He heard it crack again. It was the last thing he heard for a while.

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He was shivering with such violence, when he next awoke, he actually wondered if a person could break bones this way. He brought his hands up and wrapped them around his naked chest.

His what?

Where was his leisure suit? He was going home. Salazar said he was going home!

Charlie ignored the shivering long enough to do an inventory. He could tell that he was lying down, in a dark place. Now that his newly-opened eyes had adjusted somewhat, he could see that he was lying on dirt. A 'ping' went off in his aching head and he raised his hands tentatively to check. No blindfold. He scrambled to his hands and knees, then stood,wobbly. As he awaited balance, he could tell with his hands, and with his other senses, that he was completely, utterly naked.

He hadn't decided how he felt about that yet, when he heard a blood-curdling scream come from somewhere. His breath quickened. It didn't sound as if he wanted to stay wherever he was. Charlie stretched his hands out before him and headed for the perimeter of the room. He needed to find a door.

If only he'd started out in the opposite direction. As it was, when the door opened, he was about as far away from it as he could be. He turned at the sound and his heart skipped a beat when he recognized Salazar, carrying a fire torch that cast an eerie glow about the dark room. Another guard he had seen before entered behind Salazar, and then someone new. He was in some kind of uniform, and the other two seemed deferential to him.

Charlie stood naked and shivering before them, almost paralyzed with fear. He did manage to lower his hands, to cover himself, wondering as he did so why modesty was so important right now. The new man, the one in uniform, looked him up and down in such a way that Charlie began to fear he was up for auction. Then he turned and spoke in rapid, low Spanish to Salazar, who lowered his head like a whipped puppy. Then he thrust the torch at the other guard, and left the way he had come.

The man turned back to Charlie. When he spoke, it was in almost flawless English. "I apologize for my soldier's…enthusiasm. He does not like Americans. I have sent him to find something for you to wear."

Charlie didn't know what he had been expecting, but he knew it hadn't been this. He didn't respond. They stood and regarded each other silently in the torchlight until the door opened again and Salazar returned, carrying a bundle. He stopped near the other soldiers and threw it into the center of the room. Charlie still stood where he was, until the one in charge spoke again. "Please. Go to the clothes and find yourself something to wear. Then throw the rest back, and sit there. In the middle of the room."

Feeling a self-loathing he was not familiar with and for a while could not identify, Charlie did as he was told. As he hurried first into a pair of jeans only a few sizes too large, then both a t-shirt and a sweater, he carried on a monologue in his head. _Don would not just quietly do whatever he was told, he thought. Don would never have woken up naked and shivering in the first place. Blindfolded or not, Don would have fought back._

He rolled up the few remaining clothes, and tossed them back. _Don's brother is a wuss_, he thought, as he sat back on the dirt as he had been told. He sat cross-legged, so he could tuck his bare, freezing feet underneath.

Salazar and the other guard stood their ground by the door while the man in uniform approached him. He stopped a few feet away. "You are in the jungle," he said. "This is an abandoned peasant village we are using as an outpost."

Charlie couldn't quite believe it himself, when he spoke. "Abandoned?", he questioned harshly. "Or taken?"

The man tilted his head a little, and a small smile crossed his face. "Ah. Good. You can speak." He let a few seconds pass. His arms had been crossed over his chest, but now he lowered one to each hip, and spread his boots a little farther apart in the dirt. It was not a stance that inspired a feeling of safety. "I need to know who you are."

Charlie just stared up at him. Salazar often called him by his first name, having heard it from the other hostages. What kind of trick question was this? He swallowed. "I am Charlie." He surprised himself again when he added more. "He said I was going home." He indicated Salazar accusingly.

The soldier shrugged. "I cannot change what games my men may find to amuse themselves with. This is a harsh country; we are in a difficult war. The men need some relief."

Charlie's heart thudded to his frozen toes. It had all been a game, then. It wasn't that something had gone wrong. Nothing had ever gone right.

"There are Americans looking for you."

Charlie raised his head again. Another game, perhaps? Well, he wasn't playing anymore. He kept silent.

"At first one, then two, for a while. Now there is one, again. He is very persistant. Your face, it is all over Santa Ana. He is free with his _dinero_.It became too dangerous to keep you there any longer. What work do you complete that makes you so valuable to the Americans?"

Charlie considered. Maybe there was someone…maybe Don? But who was the second? Besides, Don wouldn't come…Larry would. But he would have gotten himself killed before now, too. "Nothing," he finally answered. "I am a teacher. Don't you think if I was really important there would be more than one man looking for me?" Dear God – what if Alan had come over here?

The soldier raised his arms to cross them across his chest again. He nodded slowly. "This is good," he said. "Then you will not mind, when we kill him. He begins to annoy me."

Charlie sat. Whoever it was, he did not want them killed. "I am a teacher," he repeated. "At a university."

The soldier turned to join the other guards. "You will stay here," he said at the door. "This hut is in the center of the compound. My men surround you on all sides. Do not try to escape." The door creaked open and Salazar exited with the torch, first. In the sudden blackness, Charlie heard the soldier say one more thing. "Perhaps this is good time to work on lesson plans, no?"

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Charlie didn't know how long he was in that hut naked, before he had waken up the first time and had his talk with the soldier. It must have been night, though. Opening the door made no difference in the room, only the torch that Salazar carried. Sure enough, a few hours later, he could tell when the sun was up. The peasant hut had no windows, of course, but the walls were full of chinks and cracks. He had no trouble figuring out that he was in there, alone, for four more days.

Twice, always at night, someone remembered to feed him. He almost regretted when they did. If he took something into his body, eventually he would have to let it back out. The first time he cautiously approached the door, and knocked on it from the inside. "_Bano!"_ he called, hoarse from not speaking. "_Bano!"_ Finally, desperate, he pushed the door open a little. A guard sat directly outside, his back to the door, ignoring him. In the moonlight Charlie could see a bucket of water near him, and suddenly his thirst was more urgent than his need to relieve himself. "_Agua!",_ he cried. "_Por favor, senor, agua!_"

The guard turned toward him, and Charlie recognized Carlos. They stared at each other, stunned. Finally, Carlos spoke. "Other men in apartment tell me you go home."

This army didn't exchange a lot of information, apparently. "That's what Salazar told us, when he took me. I have been here. I don't know how long."

Carlos frowned. "I not know who inside. I only told to guard." He stepped backwards. "Come. _Agua._"

Charlie did not have to be told twice. He practically fell into the bucket and drank his fill. Then, Carlos led him past several soldiers – some sleeping on the ground, some gathered at campfires and watching him over their machine guns -- to a trench they had obviously been using as a latrine. Afterwards, back at the hut, Carlos carried the bucket of water inside. He sat it on the dirt and looked sadly at Charlie. "I go back to city tomorrow," he said. "You keep."

"_Gracias_," Charlie said. When Carlos closed the door on him again, he picked the bucket up and carried it to the farthest corner, feeling the wall in the dark with a trailing hand. Maybe no-one would see it and take it away.

The bucket was less than half full, and over the next two days, until they fed him again, he drank from it. The water was putrid, and tasted vaguely of gasoline. Still, he drank it. Several hours after he had eaten a crust of bread that had been thrown at him like a rock, he sadly drained the bucket, then used it as a personal latrine. Disgusted, he left it in its corner and never went near it again.

The sun only rose once more, anyway. The next morning, the door burst open during the daylight hours for the first time since Charlie had been there. Salazar came in, gun trained on Charlie, angry. Salazar was always angry. "I show you!" he had screamed, pushing Charlie roughly with the muzzle of the gun. "I show you what I think of American!"

That was when Charlie had been gagged and bound, in the back of a van, and driven for hours deeper into the jungle. That was when Salazar had made Charlie watch him kill Don.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 9**

_**PRESENT DAY…**_

Dr. Enderil sat on one of the hard plastic chairs in Charlie's room. He was allowing Don to sit it the other one. He would rather speak to Charlie alone, but the former hostage had started to hyperventilate when it looked like that might happen. Since Alan was down the hall waiting for a nurse to find him another pair of socks, and help him clean up his shoes, Dr. Enderil had finally let Don stay. He watched the obviously distressed man sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Can you tell me why you threw up on your father?"

Charlie ran a hand through his newly cropped hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Is he all right?" He looked apprehensively at Don.

The naked fear in his eyes tore at Don's heart. "He's fine, Buddy. You think that's the first time you've barfed all over him?"

The doctor looked at Don. "Mr. Eppes. I'll have to ask you again not to speak." He turned his attention back to Charlie. "Why did both the chess game and the magazines upset you so much?"

Charlie looked down at his wringing hands and let out a shuddering sigh. "They just reminded me…of the first place they kept me." He looked at up at the doctor. "I wish I knew about Carlos. No-one will tell me how Carlos is."

The doctor consulted his chart. "Carlos…I understand you were recovered with a Jerry Davison, a member of Senator Richland's staff. Who was Carlos? Another hostage?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. There were others…there are others…from several countries. But Carlos was a guard. I think those men hurt him, when they got us out of the compound."

Don sat up straighter in his chair and a glare from the doctor kept him from saying what he had almost let fly. He was going to tell Charlie he hoped Carlos had been killed, given CPR, and then killed again.

The doctor nodded. "What about the Senator? And…" he looked down at the chart, again. "Martin Taylor, the other teacher who was being held? It says here his body was recovered. How long had be been dead?"

Charlie blinked nervously. "Are you sure he was dead? Sometimes…sometimes they tricked us. Told us someone was dead who wasn't, or told us that someone was going home who didn't…They carried the Senator out the day before. Maybe he was dead. It was hard to know what to believe…"

Don shifted in his chair again, horrified, and Charlie again looked at him fearfully. He looked as if he was afraid he had said the wrong thing. He looked down quickly.

The doctor spoke. "The men who retrieved you and Mr. Davison assure us that Mr. Taylor was dead. Yet your questions are about Carlos, one of your captors."

Charlie looked up, confused. "But…he was only doing what he had to, as a soldier. What they made him do. He never hurt me, like some of the others. He was kind to me, sometimes….And…and he would talk to me.I know he believed in their cause. He truly wanted to make things better...Is Carlos all right?"

"I'm not sure," the doctor said, truthfully. "Was Carlos always good to you? You said he never hurt you."

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "He was better than Salazar," he answered. "When he had to punish me, I deserved it. He never just did it for sport."

Don had heard enough. Too much. He could not sit here and not say anything any longer; but he was loathe to say the wrong thing, and somehow set Charlie back. So he just rose from the chair abruptly, in one fluid motion, and strode angrily from the room. Dr. Enderil and Charlie watched the door swing shut behind him.

Charlie spoke first. "You see?" he said, his voice low and heartbroken. "There is something bad about me. I must have deserved it, the things they did. My own brother can't stand me for very long."

The doctor leaned forward in his chair. "Charlie, look at me." He waited until Charlie's bright eyes met his own. "You did not deserve it. Any of it. You did not. No-one deserves to be treated in such a way." Charlie's eyes flickered toward the door. The doctor continued. "Your brother is not angry at you. He is overwhelmed by what you have been through, and sitting here silently was too much for him. I promise you that he will be back. Your father, too."

Charlie wrapped his arms around his shoulders. "Can I go home? I want to go home."

The doctor hesitated. On the one hand, this was good. Charlie was beginning to understand his own desires, again. On the other hand, he had only eaten one soft meal, and it was currently all over his father. "Perhaps tomorrow," he said gently.

Charlie nodded sadly, as if he didn't believe he would ever go home again. He climbed off the bed slowly and went to the nearest corner. His back to the wall, he slid down and sat on the floor. "I'm tired now," he said, and leaned his head back against the wall.

Dr. Enderil rose and took a blanket from the bed. He approached Charlie and offered it to him. "I understand. You can sleep for a while. It's all right."

Charlie reached out tentatively with one hand and clutched the blanket. He looked at the doctor with naked gratitude. "_Gracias_," he whispered.

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Don paced Dr. Enderil's office, rubbing his shoulder absently. "Why is he worried about one of the guards?" he growled. "He never even asked about Davison, the guy he was rescued with."

"Donnie, please sit down," begged Alan. "I can only hear half of what you're saying."

Don glanced at him, in one of the chairs facing Dr. Enderil's desk, and then at the impassive doctor behind the desk who watched him. Don scowled. "What are you talking about, old man? You hear better than I do."

Alan swiveled in the chair. "Donald. Alan. Eppes."

Don locked eyes with his father for a brief moment.

Then he crossed to the chair next to him and sat down. "Sorry about the 'old man' crack."

Alan sighed, and looked at the doctor. "What exactly happened in there? Why is my son so upset?"

"Which son?" countered the doctor, and Alan smiled a little.

"Your choice."

The doctor smiled back. "Same answer anyway, probably. Don is upset because Charlie was concerned about the welfare of one of his captors. Charlie is upset because he's afraid that he somehow did something to deserve all this." He glanced at Don. "When you left the room, he used that to prove to me he's a bad person. He said even his brother can't be around him very long."

Both men blanched, and Don made as if to stand up. "Then I have to go back and explain," he said. "That wasn't why I left at all!" He looked at Alan in horror. "Dad, I didn't mean to make him feel that way…"

Dr. Enderil interrupted. "He's probably asleep by now. It's been a very exhausting day for him so far. I explained to him that you were only overwhelmed by the circumstances, not angry at him."

Don settled back a little. "Did he believe you?"

The doctor shrugged. "That's up to you. Charlie is exhibiting classic signs of 'Stockholm Syndrome'. I'm surprised I have to tell a man with your training this, Agent Eppes."

Don lowered his head to his hands. "Stockholm Syndrome," he repeated into them. "I didn't even think…"

Alan put one hand on Don's back and rubbed small circles while he looked at the doctor. "That's when someone being held identifies with their captor, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Any small kindness is blown completely out of proportion. The guard Charlie was talking about may have done anything – given him a drink, refused to let another guard kill him…Charlie indicated the man talked to him. I know from our earlier conversation that there were times Charlie was held in completely isolated situations. Someone talking to him must have been extremely powerful."

Don had raised his head again. "How can we help him?"

"Stockholm Syndrome was first identified in 1973, but is now accepted as an almost universal defense mechanism among hostages, even victims of domestic abuse. Isolation is a strong contributing factor. Charlie may benefit from self-help group therapy."

Don snorted. "Self-help? As in, 'if you knew how to take care of yourself better, this kind-of thing wouldn't happen'? I thought we all agreed that none of this is Charlie's fault!"

The doctor closed the file in front of him and looked at Don for a few seconds. "It isn't," he finally agreed. "But as I said, victims of domestic abuse often suffer Stockholm Syndrome as well. Being in a group would show Charlie that he's not as unique as he thinks."

This time Alan made a noise of disgust, turning all heads towards him. "I'm sorry, Dr. I respect your expertise, I do. But trust me. Charlie has been unique for so long, he's used to it by now."

Dr. Enderil smiled a little. "No doubt. I'm not saying he must become involved in group therapy, or even individual therapy. I am only saying that he may want to consider it." He shifted in his chair a little. "It's important that he face the violence of the last six months. You should ask him about it directly, as opportunities arise. I know your instinct will be to blindly comfort him – and there is a time for that. But if Charlie forces himself to verbalize the things that happened to him, he may hear them for the first time, himself. He'll gain a different outlook on the guards he is making excuses for, now, for instance. He needs to be able to integrate both the perceived kindnesses, and the terror."

"How long will it take?", Don asked, feeling a little like a child in the back seat of a car, asking _"Are we there yet?"_ He refused to look at his father. "I mean until he's Charlie, again."

The doctor leaned forward and studied Don intently. "He is Charlie now," he answered. "Do not wait for some magic to dispel the effects of the last six months. There have been lessons he will not 'un-learn'. He can emerge from this experience triumphantly, however. Don't mourn the loss of who your brother was – at least, not to an extreme. That might cause him to believe he has somehow let you down. Rather, embrace who your brother is now."

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When they were finished talking to Dr. Enderil, Alan decided to walk back to their rooms to shower and change. He still felt as if he was wearing Charlie's scrambled eggs. Besides, he thought he and Don could each use some time alone to think. He had been so relieved when Robert Tompkins had said that Charlie was alive, he had never even considered what his son still had to go through.

Alan stood in a hot shower for a long time. He allowed himself to cry, both in relief and in heartbreak. He emerged from the water knowing he would never do it again. Charlie would not be honest with them if he was afraid of hurting them. He needed someone who could look at him, unflinching, and accept whatever he had to say. Over the last six months, Alan had grieved for his son. Now…now he would allow his son to grieve.

It was early afternoon when he pushed open the door of Charlie's hospital room again. He stood framed in the doorway, a little taken aback, when he saw both of his boys sitting on the floor in the corner. Charlie was covered with a blanket – he had obviously been sleeping there again, although he was silently awake, now. Don sat cross-legged next to him, a take-out bag from the cafeteria in his lap, holding a sandwich.

While Alan watched, he ripped a chunk of the sandwich off, and offered it to his brother. Charlie snaked out a hand and accepted. Don took a bite of the remainder of the sandwich, and positioned a soda so that it sat on the floor between the brothers. Charlie contemplated his food, then tentatively nibbled at it. He swallowed. "This is good," he said. "They won't give me real food, but we mostly ate bread, there, so I don't really know why."

Don sipped at the soda, then handed it to Charlie. "There was no doubt a study done somewhere that convinced them this is the best course of action."

Charlie swallowed some soda and put the cup back on the floor. He smiled slightly. "Don't knock scientific study. I was a scientist, once."

Don bumped shoulders with him. "Once? You were a scientist at three, Chuck. You'll always be a scientist. Come on, tell me the truth – didn't you conduct one study while you were gone? Formulate one new theory?"

Charlie took a larger bite of his sandwich. Alan still hovered in the doorway. Finally, Charlie sighed. "108.0303," he said.

Don looked at him. "What's that?"

"The average," his brother answered. "One week, in the first place I was, Vladimir mentioned his wife 112 times. Jose spoke of his son 115 times. I usually talked less than they did, so I only worked you and Dad in 98 times. Still. In an average week of being held against your will, a person will speak of the people he loves 108.0303 times."

Don studied the floor. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "That sounds about right."

The two men continued to eat and share a soda in the corner of the room. Alan, still undetected in the doorway, backed out into the hall and headed for the sunroom. Sometimes, a man should just spend some time with his brother.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 10**

_**1-1/2 to 3 MONTHS AGO…**_

After watching Salazar kill Don, Charlie was taken away from the jungle again, back to a city. Salazar did not even bother to blindfold him. He remained gagged and inert on the floor in the back of the van. Charlie did not even pay attention to the things he could see out the window, things that might have helped him figure out where he was. He couldn't care where he was. All he could see, all he could hear, was Don being shot, and the sound of the incessant rain on the roof of the van.

When the van finally stopped, and Salazar threw open the back door, they were in some kind of dark parking garage, off the street. Dragged out of the van by his hair, Charlie could see the nearby lights and hear the sounds that indicated they were in a city again. It crossed his mind how war-torn a country must be, when someone could be led, bound and gagged, so freely about.

He stumbled along sliently, letting Salazar push him through the structure. It was either abandoned or designated for businesses that were already closed, for there were no other cars. Charlie counted the faded white lines that delineated parking spaces. There was no elevator – or if there was, it wasn't working, and Salazar shoved him up seven flights of stairs. The guard cursed when Charlie missed a step and fell backwards into him. The handgun he had been waving discharged, the bullet whistling past Charlie's head and the sound echoing in the stairwell. Charlie just wished it had found its mark.

By the time he was finally deposited in a bare room, alone, Charlie sank to his knees on the floor, not even hearing the threats anymore. He didn't really register someone affixing one end of a chain to his ankle, and the other to an iron loop bolted low on the wall. The sound of the door slamming and locking meant nothing to him.

All that mattered was that he had gotten Don killed.

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That was the month that Charlie dropped most of the 33 pounds he lost in captivity. Guards may have come every day – he didn't really know. He just lay on the floor, attached to the wall, often for days at a time. Other hostages were brought in to speak with him, eventually. In the presence of guards, they would urge him to move, to eat. He would lie there and soil himself.

He awoke one day to find himself staring at Senator Richland. It was the first time he had seen anyone he was taken with, and it surprised him enough that he sat up, a little. The chain dragged on the floor and he leaned heavily against the wall and blinked. The Senator was not chained, or bound in any way. Of course, there was an ever-present guard with a machine gun standing near the door.

The Senator walked a few steps closer, slowly, as if he was in pain. "They tell me I'm going home," he started, "and I want to know when you broke. I'll need to tell your family."

Not the conversational tack Charlie was expecting the man to take. "Wh?", he croaked. He hadn't spoken for quite some time, so the entire word proved too taxing. Still, the Senator got the gist.

"Thing is, they'll ask. I want to be able to answer. Can you tell me the exact day they broke you?"

Charlie was starting to think this was some kind of weird dream or hallucination, but it was still making him angry. "Killed Don," he rasped out, and coughed. "They killed my brother," he repeated, his voice stronger.

The Senator nodded. "So your father is home alone, now. When he finds me and demands to know about you, I should tell him that these bastards got both his sons with the same bullet? I won't mention that it just took you a little longer to die."

Charlie weakly tried to stand. His intention was to kill the Senator himself, before the guard did, but the chain was not that long. He settled back on the floor and glared, instead. The Senator wobbled a little before him. "You don't look so good," Charlie finally said.

Senator Richland grinned. "I haven't had any medication during our vacation."

Charlie was surprised the man was alive at all. Maybe he _was_ a hallucination. Senator Richland had severe diabetes, and gave himself shots twice a day at home. "You're going home…they'll get it back under control."

The Senator tilted his head a little. "Right. This is only the fourth time they've told me I'm going home. I'm sure you'll understand if I don't hold my breath."

Charlie found himself grinning. "Did they ever give you a leisure suit?"

The Senator nodded. "Every time. I think they just keep using the same one over and over on all of us." He glanced back at the guard, who, surprisingly, hadn't objected to any of the conversation yet. "Haven't brought it to me this time. Don't think their hearts are really into this deception. Miguel here speaks perfect English. Educated at Yale."

Charlie looked at the guard in shock. The man just smiled slowly at the Senator, then looked down at Charlie. "My aunt and American uncle arranged for my education. I came back to my country as soon as I could. Our battle against the regime is all that matters. We must win democracy."

Charlie swallowed drily. He tugged on the ankle chain with one hand. "This is not democracy. You fight with the wrong tools."

The guard frowned. "Nothing is perfect. There are those of us who agree with you. But we are only soldiers. We do not make policy. One day, we will. You will see a change in the insurgence, then."

The Senator wobbled over to a wall between Charlie and the guard, put his back against it and began to slide down to the floor. "Since I'm not going home," he deadpanned, "I hope you don't mind if an old man has a seat."

Charlie looked at him again, then up at Miguel. "He's ill. He needs his medication."

Miguel shrugged. "This I cannot do. It is one thing to sneak him in here for a few moments as the others have dinner."

Charlie thunked his head back on the wall. "Why does it matter so much, that I will not eat? Who do you think I am?"

"I know who you are," Miguel answered easily. "I studied mathematics at Yale. I do this as a favor to Carlos. He says that we must counter the Salazars until we have the power to eliminate them."

Great. An underground insurgence within the insurgence, and somehow Charlie had ended up in the middle of it all. He couldn't even think of an answer to that.

The Senator studied him. "You stink, kid," he finally noted, and Charlie blushed furiously beneath his beard. He looked at the floor.

Miguel moved. "Come. They return soon. I take you to clean up, find new clothing." He shouldered his machine gun and approached Charlie's ankle chain.

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The next day, several things happened.

All the prisoners were brought into the same room together, and lined up against a wall. Charlie was sure that they were going to be executed. Considering he had just stopped trying to die the day before, he was surprised it disturbed him so much.

There were four of them. All from the aircraft; they were together, again. Charlie, Senator Richland, Martin and Jerry. They watched silently as four guards entered. Charlie started when the next man in the room was the uniformed officer from the jungle; the man in charge. Behind him came Carlos, and then Miguel.

"Do you want blindfolds?", the one in uniform asked. Charlie swallowed drily, and shook his head. The others must have as well, for no-one approached them. In Spanish, the officer then directed the first four men to train their weapons on the hostages. He stationed Miguel at the door behind them, then took Carlos into a corner with him. He barked a command, and the guns raised. Charlie noticed for the first time that they were rifles. He wondered where the machine guns had gone. Maybe they were not deemed worth the waste of ammunition.

The officer barked another command, and the rifles raised a little further, and the soldiers sited their targets. Charlie heard a whimper escape Jerry, next to him on the right. On his left, his old friend Martin stood stoicly. Charlie tried not to think of Alan, waiting at home, forever, for both of his sons.

The officer barked a third command. As a unit, the four gunmen swung around, in a move that looked almost choreographed. In the final act of the macabre ballet, they each emptied their weapons…into Miguel.

Jerry fell on the floor in a dead faint. Charlie willed himself not to look through the smoke at Carlos. If they did not know about Carlos yet, he did not want to give him away. None of the guards looked at them, or spoke to them again. They simply exited the room, dragging Miguel's body with them, leaving the four prisoners to stare at the blood spatters on the wall, and the brains on the ceiling.

It was two days before they were fed again. Then they were all bound, gagged, and blindfolded, and taken one-at-a-time down the stairwell to a waiting cargo van. The guard taking Charlie pushed him frequently from behind. Eventually, Charlie felt himself miss at least one step, and lose his balance. Automatically, his bound hands came up before him. When he finally came to a halt, crashing into the cement floor of a landing, he broke his wrist for the second time. Charlie tried to curl around his wrist, screaming into his gag. The guard only swore at him in Spanish and jerked him to his feet. Tears of pain and frustration soaked the blindfold, and he was pushed foward again -- down more stairs, toward the waiting van.

The hostages did not know it, but they were on their way to their final stop: The compound deep in the jungle.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 11**

_**PRESENT DAY…**_

Thanks to Charlie's CalSci identification, Don's FBI credentials and the considerable pull of Robert Tompkins, they managed to get Charlie past security and onto a flight home late the next afternoon.

The morning had been frantic, once the doctors had decided that Charlie could go home. Alan had rushed back to their rooms to pack, while Don had chased all over the city trying to find a way to get Charlie on a plane. Charlie had been left to his own devices at the hospital.

His devices must not have been good ones. By the time Alan got back, toting two duffle bags, Charlie was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, rocking slightly. He scrambled to his feet as soon as his father darkened the doorway. "Can I go with you, next time you leave? I don't like waiting here alone." He tried to peer behind Alan. "Where's Don? Is Don coming back?"

Alan dropped the bags inside the doorway and started toward his son. In the time it took him to cross the few feet between them, he reminded himself what Dr. Enderil had told them yesterday. Maybe he could at least start with a little blind comfort. "I'm sorry, son, I didn't think it would take me so long. Are you all right?"

Charlie ran a hand through his hair nervously. "I wasn't sure you were coming back," he admitted, looking at the floor.

Alan wanted to touch Charlie, but he was afraid it might frighten him. He crossed his arms over his chest instead, in an effort to keep them to himself. "I'm here now, Charlie. Donnie will be back as soon as he can. He's making travel arrangements." He looked around the room with dissatisfaction. "Let's wait for him in the sunroom."

Charlie followed him closely across the room and down the hall. Alan kept moving farther to the side so that Charlie could walk beside him, but his son didn't seem to understand that's what he wanted. At least he sat next to him, in the sunroom.

Alan studied Charlie's profile for a while. He was facing the window, and he looked worried. He was wringing his hands in his lap. Alan sighed. He knew the doctor was probably right…the man was an expert in this field, after all. Still, it hurt him, physically, to do this.

He turned his face back to the window and cleared his throat. "There were a lot of times you were left alone?"

Charlie didn't seem to get any more upset than he already was. "Yes. I wasn't always conscious, so I don't know exactly how much time, proportionately…I just didn't like it. You're sure Don is coming back?"

Alan could tell he would be spending a lot of time on this teeter totter. Reassure, then redirect. "Yes, Charlie. Did something happen over there that makes you doubt that? Besides watching him get shot, I mean…"

Charlie actually chuckled. "That wouldn't be enough, Dad?"

Alan shrugged and grinned. "I'm just saying. You've seen him now for a couple of days, you know that he's all right."

Charlie nodded slowly. Alan was glad to see, out of the corner of his eye, that his hands were wringing a little more slowly, as well. "Once, I woke up alone…in a hut, in the jungle. I was naked. The last thing I remembered was Salazar telling me I was going home, so I didn't know what had happened….Anyway. Anyway, one of the high-ranking soldiers questioned me. He thought I was someone important, because someone was looking for me. I was confused. He said there were two, for a while. Don told me Colby came down and helped him search for a month?"

"Yes," affirmed Alan. He didn't want to say much more; he wanted Charlie to keep talking.

Charlie did. "I didn't know what to think. I wondered if Don…but then I didn't believe it. I didn't think that he would come after me. I mean, I knew he would have work…"

"Charlie, Charlie," Alan murmured. "Surely you understand by now that you mean more to Don than his work."

Charlie was silent for a moment. "I don't think I really did," he finally said, sadly. "When I was in the back of the van, watching, and Donnie came out of the jungle into that clearing…." His voice came close to breaking. "God, Dad, it was the best moment of my life. The best. Then Salazar shot him, and it was the worst."

Alan's instinct told him he had pushed far enough for the moment. It was time for a little blind comfort, he thought, as he wrapped an arm around Charlie's thin shoulders. He held on tight, and tried to make his son feel safe.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

While they waited at the airport to board, Alan took Charlie into a men's shop inside the terminal and bought him a pair of jeans that came close to fitting, and a nice sweater. He didn't look quite so…lost, in clothes that fit, although he somehow looked more fragile. Alan sincerely hoped these new clothes would not fit for long. He was going to get some weight back on the boy. They would stop on the way home from the airport, and he would buy a nice brisket.

When they checked in, they found out that Robert Tompkins had called the airline. Their tickets were all upgraded to First Class. Alan didn't know how he had pulled that one off. Don had told him he had tried to purchase First Class to begin with, but there were no seats available. Both Don and Alan suffered from the delusion that First Class travel would be easier on Charlie.

Instead, he was overwhelmed fifteen minutes after they were in the air. A lovely flight attendant, with nothing to do but see to the needs of her eight passengers, presented him with enough consecutive choices to send him into shock.

It had started innocently enough. She smiled and asked Charlie what he would like to drink. Alan sat next to him, in the window seat; Don was across the aisle. Charlie turned worried eyes to Alan, who was ready. He had been anticipating this. "We'll just share a bottle of water," he smiled at the attendant.

She quickly reached for one on her cart. She placed napkins on their tray tables and handed Alan a bottle. They she picked up a glass and looked at Charlie again. "Would you like some ice today?"

Alan could see Charlie's hands moving under the tray table. "I believe we'll both have ice, thank you," he said, thinking that was the end of it.

Instead, she looked at Charlie again, as she gave them each a small cup with ice cubes. "I have pretzels, or trail mix. Would you care for a small snack before dinner?"

Charlie looked at Alan again, then down at the floor. Alan kept smiling. "My son enjoys trail mix, thank you. I'll have some pretzels." God. Please. Let that be the end of it.

She reached for the tiny bags, looking a little apprehensively at Charlie now. "I'm also taking orders for our evening meal, which I'll serve you in about an hour-and-a-half. Today's First Class choices include grilled salmon, chicken fettuccini or a 4 oz. boneless top sirloin steak with baked potato."

This time Charlie shot panicked eyes across the aisle. Don mouthed a word to him, and Charlie finally looked at the flight attendant and spoke for himself. "Salmon," he said, inordinately proud of himself. "_Gracias_," he added as an afterthought. He didn't seem to notice that he wasn't speaking English. Alan decided not to tell him.

Alan stayed hyper-alert and a little tense throughout dinner. The meal was surprisingly good — he would have to fly First Class more often. When the trays were collected and another round of drinks distributed, he relaxed a little. The rest of the flight should be a breeze.

Across the aisle, Don was apparently thinking the same thing. When the flight attendant slithered up next to Charlie about half an hour later, offering him headphones, they were both asleep. Charlie looked first at Alan, then toward Don, then back up at the attendant. She smiled tentatively. "There's an in-flight movie starting soon, or you can use the headphones to listen to music, or news…There are several choices you can pick from…" She seemed to think of something else, then, and her smile brightened. "Headphones are free of charge in First Class!"

Charlie swallowed. He could do this. He should be able to do this. He finally grabbed the headphones. He didn't have to figure out what to use them on, he just had to get rid of her…. "Thanks," he mumbled, this time in English.

She was encouraged. "Would you like a pair for your father, in case he wakes up soon?"

In the name of all that was holy, could this woman do nothing but ask him questions? Charlie could feel his breathing becoming rapid and shallow. "No," he shook his head. "No." His voice was starting to raise a little, and others in the cabin were looking at them. He must have picked the wrong answer. "Yes? I don't know."

The flight attendant was proud to be in First Class. She worked hard to ensure the comfort of her passengers. She could see that Alan was using both blankets, and she could tell that Charlie was upset. He probably needed to sleep, himself. She tried again. "Would you like another blanket? Are you warm enough to sleep?"

Charlie tried to stand abruptly, but was held down by the seat belt. For a moment, that caused him more distress. He started to think he was chained, or tied, again. He looked at the flight attendant in horror. "I'm trapped."

She giggled. "If you'd like to use the restroom, or walk around the cabin a little, I suggest removing your seatbelt first."

His heart, which had been working its way up his throat and was approaching his mouth, thudded back into his rib cage. Charlie yanked off the seat belt and catapulted past her, without answering the blanket question. _El baño_. That sounded like a good idea.

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When Don awoke, it was because two flight attendants stood a few feet in front of him, banging on the bathroom door.

"Sir? Are you ill? Are you able to answer us, please?"

Great. First Class, and still stuck with some yoyo. Don glanced across the aisle to see how Charlie was dealing with the commotion, then sat up quickly in his seat. Where the hell was Charlie?

"Sir, we need to keep this restroom available to other passengers. If you don't respond, we'll have to pry the door open."

Oh, God. Don quickly released his seat belt and stepped forward, reaching in his pocket for his identification. People always took him more seriously when they knew he was FBI. He held up his badge. "Excuse me. Is that the passenger from 2B?"

A male flight attendant regarded his badge with apprehension. "Yes. He's been in there half an hour. Is he a prisoner, or something?"

Don heard a murmuring of voices behind him. He slipped his badge back into his pocket. "No, no…he's my brother. He's been ill. Please, let me talk to him. Everything is all right, I assure you."

The female flight attendant exchanged a look with her male counterpart. "He has seemed a little…odd. And he's pretty skinny."

Don smiled. "Skinny. Right. Please, let me talk to him?" The attendants exchanged another look, then stepped aside, allowing Don access to the door. He stepped up and rapped on the door. "Charlie? Chuck, it's Don. Unlock the door."

It was that simple. A command, rather than a choice. The "unoccupied" sign immediately slid into place. Don opened the door cautiously. Charlie peered up at him from his seat on the closed commode. Don stepped inside the tiny space. He smiled reassuringly at the flight attendants, and closed the door in their faces. He kept the same smile on his face when he turned to face Charlie. "What's going on, Buddy? Are you sick?"

Charlie shook his head miserably. "They won't leave me alone," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "They keep asking me to choose things. I just wanted it to stop for a while."

Don nodded. He took a turn on the teeter totter that was Charlie, trying to find the right balance. "I'm sorry we both fell asleep. If you come out now, one of us will always be awake from here on, until we get home. I won't let them bother you anymore."

Charlie sniffed. "You're tired. Dad told me you haven't even been released to field duty, yet. You should sleep. I should be able to do this."

Don leaned over slightly and took Charlie's face in both of his hands. His own face was only inches away from his brother's. He spoke slowly, deliberately, purposefully. "Charlie. You are not alone, anymore. Do you hear me?" Don gave Charlie's head a little shake of emphasis. "I promise you. You will never be alone again." He held on until he heard Charlie sigh, and felt him relax a little against him. He straightened then, and grinned down at him. "Come on. You've got these people so freaked out now, I think it's safe to say they won't come anywhere near you again, anyway."

Charlie grinned back, a wobbly smile. "I hope you're right, Don...Because I swear to God, if anybody asks me one more question, I will not wait for a parachute."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 12**

_**THE COMPOUND…**_

The last 90 days of captivity were the most difficult for Charlie. He knew Senator Richland had been right – he had to survive, for Alan. He would get back home to him some day. He had to believe that, because he could feel Alan believing in him. It was the least he could do, staying alive.

He had to remind himself of that regularly, though. He had to keep telling himself he had made the right decision when he had pulled himself off the floor back in the city. He hated it here. It was a ridiculous thought – who liked being a hostage, anywhere? – but a thought that persisted.

The mostly-underground bunker was damp, and dirty. Even though the four of them were back together, they were kept in individual cells, complete with barred doors. Senator Richland was directly across from him. Charlie watched him decline further physically every day, although his attitude was positive enough to put them all to shame. The man told jokes. He wondered if this experience would win him the sympathy vote, and get him re-elected. He insisted they keep their minds sharp. He would declare a day "Russian Day", or "Italian Day", or even "Latvian Day". More of a teacher than Charlie, he would share what he knew about the country of choice, and make them all do the same thing. Anyone who spoke any of the native language of that country could speak nothing else that day, after the shared geography lesson.

For a few weeks, he tried to implement an entire course of study. Charlie was called upon to deliver a lecture in mathematics, or physics, and Martin led discussions in literature. Still, Charlie hated it, because it measured the Senator's decline so obviously, and because it was such a poor substitute for the real thing. Plus, Jerry was an asshole. He was on the same side of the building as Charlie, next door, so he could never see him. He frequently told him to shut-up and stop whining, though.

Speaking abruptly like that to people had never been part of Charlie's personality. He began to wonder who the hell he would be, if they ever did get out. When his voice took on a certain shrillness that indicated he was close to going over the edge of the cliff they all stood on, Martin would come to the very corner of his cell. Charlie could just see him, if he stood in the right place in his own cell. Something about the older man always calmed him down, and Martin knew it.

He told himself part of the reason he was so impatient with Jerry was because of the pain he suffered in his wrist. And, whatever they were drinking hardly qualified as water. It made him sick on a regular basis, and they were not given enough to eat for him to waste any being sick.

Most days, each man was given a chunk of bread – although it was not unusual for them to miss days at a time. Once, in a move that had no precedent and was never repeated, they were fed something that resembled polenta, with some sort of meat and gravy. It was actually very good – and they were given large portions. It might have been a national holiday, or perhaps something significant had happened in the conflict. They never knew. What they did learn, first-hand, was how stupid they were to eat the food so greedily. Every one of them was sick for days, and the underground bunker reeked of their vomit and diarrhea, an odor that never really went away, after that.

The illness cost the Senator dearly. He lost a great deal of weight. Even though he knew it was against the rules, Charlie began to tear his chunks of bread in half, tossing part into the Senator's cell. The rules made no sense, and he had learned that they would change in a few days anyway. For a while, Senator Richland ate them gratefully, but a little extra bread was not enough to restore his health. The day eventually came when he did not move across his cell to retrieve the bread Charlie threw. It was still there when Carlos made his rounds later.

Carlos had been with them in the jungle since they were moved to the compound. One or two other soldiers were usually there as well. Another reason Charlie found to dislike Jerry was the affect he had on Carlos. The guard seemed less friendly, and loathe to spend time around the sniveling fool. 'Sniveling fool' was actually what Charlie heard Carlos call Jerry one night…and he found he had a hard time disagreeing with the assessment.

The day that Carlos shone his flashlight on the scrap of bread and asked why Senator Richland did not eat his meal, the Senator was too befuddled to cover. "I did," he said weakly.

Jerry had piped up from his cell. "That's Charlie's. He's been giving him extra, every day. I told him to stop." Why Jerry still believed he could curry favor with a man who obviously despised him, was anybody's guess.

Carlos had frowned and turned to Charlie. "This is true?"

Charlie shrugged. "He's ill. He needs more."

Carlos had looked truly unhappy. He had glanced at Jerry and Martin from his position in the center of the building. He looked apologetically back at Charlie. "You understand that there must be consequences. The others must see that rules must be obeyed."

Charlie's heartrate quickened, but he stood his ground. "I understand," he said, adding defiantly, "I will do it again."

Carlos sighed. He brought forth an ancient key ring and unlocked Charlie's cell door. He stepped inside, and flattened Charlie with one swing of his machine gun. Charlie landed on his knees and his broken wrist, the pain of the impact combining with the blow to push him over the edge into unconsciousness. When he awoke, groaning, Martin told him that he had been out long enough to miss another feeding – and also that Carlos had stopped at Jerry's cell long enough to beat him senseless, as well. Carlos had called Jerry a "coward", and come close to killing him. As Martin watched the soldier deliver a final kick to the fallen man, Carlos had said that the worst punishment would be to make him live with himself and his former comrades, whom he had betrayed. He had spit on him, and left.

The incident pushed them all beyond their limits. Jerry began to talk to himself, but no-one else. He refused to answer when they spoke to him. Charlie noticed that Carlos began giving the Senator a larger portion of food, but it did not help. It went uneaten, most days. To make matters worse, Martin suddenly fell ill as well. Each man retreated to the darkest corner of his own cell, and his own demons.

Charlie thought of home more than he ever had before. He regretted the time lost with Don: Time in the past, and time in the future. He prayed that Larry, Amita, and other family friends, were surrounding his father during his grief. He missed Larry and Amita. He missed Colby, Megan and David. He missed his students. He felt his spirit break completely, the day he woke up and the blackboard in his head was empty. He had lost so much time during his captivity, he was never sure how many marks should be on it, but he had always made an effort to keep a running tally of the days.

Until he had been there one day too many, and lost all the numbers.

Soon after that, the Senator was dragged into the narrow center corridor and left there all day, unmoving. Charlie thought he might be dead. In the evening, the guards carried him out.

The next day, when Charlie and Jerry were liberated, they found out that Martin was dead, too.

_Maybe._ Charlie crouched in the tall grass, blinking silently at the strange men who had shown up out of nowhere, and didn't quite let himself believe. After all, he had been fooled in the past.

This could all be another elaborate joke.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 13**

_**PRESENT DAY…**_

About 45 minutes before the end of the flight, Don and Alan switched seats. Don climbed over Charlie, who had decided to try the headphones after all. He sat with his head back and his eyes closed, his expression more peaceful than Don had seen it since they had been reunited.

Don patted him a few times on the knee and smiled when Charlie's eyes shot open and he jolted a little in his seat. Recognizing his brother, Charlie returned a small smile and reached for the headphones. When they came off, Don thought he heard classical music. "Been a while since you've heard that, huh?"

Charlie nodded. "It's nice." He studied Don. "What's up?"

Don kept his voice calm, and even. "We're about an hour-and-a-half out. I thought I should let you know some things….Just some details Dad and I never got around to telling you, in the hospital."

Charlie's face immediately clouded. "What?"

Don could barely hear him, and he hastened to reassure him. "Nothing bad. For instance. While you were…away…Amita took a position as an Assistant Professor at CalSci. She's not a student anymore!"

Charlie blinked, then smiled slowly. "She finished her second Ph.D?"

Don amended his announcement. "The course work, I guess. I believe she's still refining her – whattayacallit."

Charlie grinned. "Dissertation?"

Don scowled. "Yeah. Whatever. Don't look at me like I'm an idiot. I just spaced on the word."

Charlie grinned a little wider. "I'm not, Don. You're not. Really. What else?"

Don cleared his throat. "Megan and Larry are an item."

Charlie's eyes widened. "What sort of item?"

Don rolled his eyes at his brother. "They're dating, Chuck. Regularly."

Charlie looked across the aisle at his father, who was engrossed in a magazine. Then he looked back at Don. "Dating? Each other?"

Don laughed out loud. Alan looked up long enough to smile himself. The boys must be talking. "Pinky swear, Charlie. She thinks he's cute. Can't say Colby and I really see it…"

Charlie raised a hand and absently scratched his nose, then dropped it on his lap again. "Geez. You're gone for a few months, and the cosmos inverts."

Don shifted a little, suddenly uncomfortable. "This one may be a little more disturbing."

Charlie smiled. "More disturbing that the image of Larry and Megan?"

Don's smile didn't reach his eyes, and Charlie's quickly became a frown. "I thought you said there was nothing bad."

"It doesn't have to be, Charlie. CalSci…emptied your office, a few months ago. Dad stored everything in the garage."

He waited while Charlie regarded him calmly for a few seconds, then looked away. He accidentally made eye contact with a flight attendant, and looked quickly back. "So. I don't have a job."

Don tried to detect how that made Charlie feel. "I…don't really know. I mean, of course they needed someone to cover the classload you were responsible for, not knowing when you'd be home…but you should talk to Larry. They told Dad that paychecks would still deposited during this school year."

"Severence pay," Charlie intoned lifelessly. Then he chuckled bitterly. "Or maybe this counts as a sabbatical. I guess you were right. I should have spent more time working on some new theory I could publish."

Don hurried to give Charlie what he could. "I really don't know the details, Buddy, but you know you'll be all right. You've invested your money wisely, and you already own your house outright. Regardless of what CalSci has done or may do, you should take some time to consider your options. You can afford that."

Don saw a dark emotion flit through Charlie's eyes. Anger? Regret? "Maybe financially," his brother finally said. "But I've lost all the time I care to, for a while."

Don couldn't argue with that. Instead, he changed the subject. "Speaking of finances…"

Charlie groaned. "My wise investments are all gone? There was a stock market crash?"

Don grinned. "No. At least, no more than usual. It's just that…I kind-of live with you, now. I'll start paying rent. It's only fair."

Charlie sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. You moved home because of your shoulder?"

Don shrugged. "At first. Even after I could get around again, I just didn't want to leave Dad rattling around that house alone."

Charlie wrapped his arms around his upper chest, as if he was suddenly cold. He nodded at the seat-back in front of him. "Good. That's good, Donnie. I hope you stay for a while. Save your rent money and soon you'll have a down payment for something of your own, if you want." He rubbed his eyes. "Or you can stay at the house forever. That's okay too."

Don saw that Charlie was becoming overwhelmed. "One more thing."

Charlie shifted his eyes toward him and raised an eyebrow, suddenly too tired to speak.

Don sensed that, and quickly moved on. "Listen, I know you're going to need to ease back into things. A lot of people want to see you, but Dad sent a message to give it a few days. It's just that…I already told Colby he could pick us up tonight, at the airport. It seemed so important to him."

Charlie's features relaxed a little. "That's all right," he assured Don. "Colby deserves at least that much, wouldn't you say?"

Don smiled. "Yeah, I would. He's been a good friend. He helped me try to find you, and then he came back, and saved my life."

"Then it's a good thing he'll be there tonight," Charlie said fervently. "I have to thank him for both of those things." He looked fully at Don for a long, silent, moment. His dark eyes were full of things Don could not even name. The feelings were so deeply felt, they defied being labeled by ordinary words. "I want to thank you, too, Donnie," Charlie finally said. "And…and apologize."

Don's own eyes widened in surprise. "Apologize? What the hell for, Charlie?"

"I didn't understand," Charlie answered. "I never understood how much you loved me."

Don looked quickly away and blinked rapidly. Then he smiled, and turning back toward Charlie reached out and ruffled his hair. "As long as you understand now, Baby Brother, we're good."

Charlie ducked his head away from Don's hand, even though he was smiling a little. He started to put the headphones back on, but paused and looked at Don again. "Just for the record," he said seriously, "I love you, too."

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As the three Eppes trudged wearily through LAX, Don halfway turned to Charlie, sandwiched in-between him and their father. "Colby should be around this next corner, at baggage claim," he said, and Charlie nodded silently. The day had been long and exhausting for him, and he looked like he wanted to be locked back in that restroom on the aircraft.

Don faced more fully forward, hoping Colby wasn't late. Unconsciously, he picked up his pace a little, and drew ahead of Charlie and Alan. As he rounded the corner the Delta baggage claim area, he saw the group waiting by the carousel and froze. Charlie walked into his back, and grunted in surprise. Don turned quickly. "Charlie, I swear, I didn't know. I promise you, I heard Dad talking to Larry on the phone yesterday. I know he asked everyone to wait."

Charlie's head came up and he raised on his toes a little to look over Don's shoulder.

"Oh…", muttered Alan, when he rounded the corner last and saw what had caused his sons to stop. Colby was at the luggage carousel, all right; but so were Larry, Amita, Megan, David…and at least 25 kids who had to be CalSci students, holding a "Welcome Back Dr. Eppes!" sign.

Charlie crashed back to the heels of his feet, and raised a shaky hand to his head. "Shit," he said, and Don didn't know why that surprised him so much. Charlie had been known to swear before, and after what he'd just been through the last six months, this was probably pretty tame. He looked at Don sadly. "Shit," he repeated.

In the end, Alan took charge. He turned his back on the crowd, placing his body so that Charlie was blocked. "I'll get your bag," he offered. "Go back to the United carousel. I saw an exit there. You can wait for us outside."

Charlie shook his head. "No. You can't get all three bags, Dad, and there are people there. There are people everywhere." He was starting to sound a little panicked. "I don't want people. So many people. It's SO LOUD in here…"

Alan reached out to touch Charlie, who automatically took a step back. Alan exchanged a look with Don, then looked at Charlie and spoke again. "Go back around the corner with Don. I believe I saw some empty chairs. Go on, now. Give me five minutes. I'll come get you."

Charlie had a hand over one ear, and he started dejectedly at the floor. "This is a seriously loud airport, even at midnight."

Don tried to guide Charlie without touching him. "Come on, Buddy. It's almost over…" Somehow, he managed to get him moving and turned around. The two brothers headed back around the corner.

Alan gave them a few seconds. He gave himself a few seconds, but it didn't help. He knew he was probably experiencing some delayed, displaced reaction, but he didn't care all that much. He was livid. He couldn't remember being so angry in all of his life.

He strode toward the waiting group. They spotted him within six steps, and he saw Megan smile widely. He also saw the smile fall off her face, and saw her look apprehensively at Larry. Alan started shouting when he was still five feet away. "What the hell are you people doing? Do you think Charlie has been off on some sort of extended vacation, or something?" He stopped in front of Larry and glared. "I asked you not to do this. I am not in the habit of making extraneous requests."

Larry swallowed. "Alan, I apologize. I simply could not stay away, and Megan wanted to accompany me so badly. I honestly don't know how the students found out. They were here when we arrived."

Amita cautiously approached them. "I'm sorry. Someone back East must have leaked the information…there was actually a small story in the evening paper. 'Local Hostage Due In Tonight'…I heard the students discussing it on campus, and I came with them. I didn't even think that it might be overwhelming for Charlie, I'm sorry…" The pretty brunette appeared ready to cry.

Colby stood at the edge of the group. "I'm not innocent here myself. I let David know when your flight was scheduled to arrive. I apologize, Mr. Eppes."

Alan continued to fume. "I'm a reasonable man," he barked. "Ordinarily, I'd forgive you all. But these are not reasonable times, and tonight, I'm a father. Nothing but a father. You have no idea how fragile Charlie is right now, how difficult this day has been on him. I know you're all here because you love him, and missed him, but this is not the time. If you love him, let him be. Please. Just let him be."

The five exchanged glances and hung their heads like punished children. The group of students, about 10 feet away. were still craning their heads, looking for Charlie. They hadn't recognized Alan, and had missed the whole thing.

Alan sighed and looked at them. "Colby. Come with me and help me get the bags, please. Then I'll take you to Don and Charlie, and we can all get out of here somewhere else."

Megan stepped forward at the same time Colby did. "Mr. Eppes, please accept my apology. I should have known better – and even if I didn't, I should have respected your wishes." The others murmured their agreement with her statements.

Alan rubbed his hand over his face. When he spoke again, it was more gently. "I understand. Maybe if he had been expecting you, or if all the students hadn't been here… it's just too much, right now. I promise that I'll contact each of you, when he's up to visitors."

Suddenly tired beyond his years, Alan turned away from the small group, and led a cowering Colby to the luggage carousel.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 14**

_**RECLAMATION…**_

Thinking it was the least they could do after causing so much trouble, Megan, David, Larry and Amita successfully distracted the students while Colby and Alan retrieved the bags, then continued on to make a wide circle of the concourse. It was almost half-an-hour before they found the chairs Don and Charlie were waiting in again.

During that time, Alan had reminded himself how much Colby had done for this family; for him, personally. The agent had only brought one other person with him, and David was his partner. Alan had watched Don be a cop long enough to respect that there was a special bond between partners. He found himself apologizing to the silent man. "Colby, you know how much I appreciate all you've done. It's been a rough few days, and I just wasn't ready to see everybody…" He even chuckled, a little. "Hear that? _I_ wasn't ready to see everybody. Maybe I haven't been protecting Charlie as much as I thought."

Colby reassured him. "No, Alan, you did what you had to. Don't worry about it. We all feel pretty stupid about it now, anyway….You were the only one truly thinking of Charlie. The rest of us were thinking of ourselves."

Alan sighed. "Let's just move on. No real harm was done. The boys are around the next corner, I think — I'm a little turned around."

Turned around or not, his fatherly instincts were correct. He and Colby turned another corner and both slowed their steps automatically. Don and Charlie sat side-by-side on a bank of attached chairs facing the corridor. Charlie was slumped against his brother, head lolling on Don's shoulder. He was obviously asleep. Alan smiled. "That may be the most comfortable position he's slept in for months. He tends to climb out of bed and crawl into the corner of the room to sleep sitting up, still."

Colby shook his head, shocked at the story and at Charlie's appearance. "Damn. How much weight did he lose?"

Alan picked up he pace a little. "That reminds me. On the way home, if it's all right, I'd like to stop at a market. I need to find a nice brisket."

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Charlie followed in a fog, once awakened. Colby had offered to bring the car into the loading zone, but Charlie insisted he could make the walk. He just wanted to get away from the building, cut down on sensory input for a while. He stumbled through the lots, surprised at his own exhaustion. It was as if his body sensed a safety in the nearness of "home", and finally relaxed.

He stumbled again, and bumped into Colby on the left. The agent easily draped an arm over Charlie's thin frame. "Whiz Kid…you sure you're up for this? I could still go get the car?"

No-one was more surprised than Charlie when he suddenly put on the brakes and turned to the taller man beside him. He threw his arms around the broad shoulders, and embraced him quickly, but with a fierceness that took Colby's breath away. Charlie sprang back as quickly as he has assaulted. "Thank-you," he said, understanding as he heard his own quiet voice how imperfect words were. "I'll never forget what you did. Never." The emotion of the moment combined with all of the day's other emotions, and Charlie whirled in the other direction. Alan flanked him on the other side, and Charlie looked up at him with a quiet desperation that tore at his heart. Charlie's voice hitched and his eyes suddenly swam with tears. "God….I'm so tired…."

Alan dropped the duffle he was carrying to the pavement, and wrapped his arms around his son. For the first time since he had been released, Charlie leaned heavily into him and sobbed, his shoulders shaking beneath his father's hands. Alan moved one hand to the back of Charlie's head, and the other extended out into the night air to grab his oldest son. Don dropped his own bag, and moved to encircle both his father and his brother, a hand on each back.

Tears stung unbidden at Colby's own eyes as he witnessed the scene and then forced himself to turn away and start walking. _Son of a freakin' bitch_, he thought, sneaking a hand up to wipe at his face. _I'm going after the damn car._

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Charlie fell asleep again immediately, once deposited in the back seat of Colby's car. He slept with his head against the window all the way home; even through Alan's dash into a supermarket. Don couldn't seem to raise him past a daze when they reached the Craftsman-style home. Charlie allowed himself to be led into the warm living room.

Colby had helped carry the bags in from the car, but he didn't want to intrude on Charlie's homecoming any more that he already had. He quickly said his "good-nights" and exited the house.

While Don and Charlie stood in the living room, Alan pushed past them toward the kitchen. Don started to protest. "Dad, it's one in the morning!"

Alan waved a hand in the air without looking back. "Just let me get the meat in a nice marinade. You'll thank me tomorrow."

Don felt Charlie sway a little beside him. "Time for bed, Buddy." To his utter surprise, Charlie automatically started for a corner of the living room, behind the television. Don grabbed his arm, as gently as he could, and pointed him toward the couch. "I'm a little wired, myself. I think I'll sit down here, a while. Stay and keep me company?"

Charlie sat heavily on the end of the couch. He was staring at Don through half-mast eyes, when Don took a seat in the recliner facing him. "I know what you're doing," he slurred. "Not that brain-dead, yet."

Don raised an eyebrow. "What am I doing?"

Charlie's answer was comically accusatory as he slouched into the corner of the couch. "You're loving me, again."

Don laughed, and before he thought better of it, he pulled one of the small pillows out from behind his back and threw it at Charlie. "I guess I've been accused of worse things."

Charlie smiled sleepily and easily caught the pillow. He clutched it on his lap and let his head fall back on the couch, eyes closing.

Five minutes later, brisket safely marinating in the recipe both sons liked so well, Alan pushed his way out of the kitchen. In the dim glow of the single lamp that was lit in the living room, he saw that they were both asleep. Don reclined back in the chair, softly snoring, and Charlie slumped in a half-and-half position on the couch. Alan smiled, and quietly walked to the closet under the stairs. He took out two blankets, and slipped off his shoes. He padded in his socks back to the living room, and covered each of them. He tried to take special care not to wake or startle Charlie, but he could not stop himself, as he crossed behind the couch, from lightly touching his youngest's hair.

When he had covered them both, Alan stood between the couch and the chair, and gazed over into the dining room, at the portrait of Margaret that hung on the wall. A single tear rolled down his cheek, unchecked, and he looked next at the ceiling. Then he stretched out his hands, one indicating each son, and did what he had done every night since Margaret had first given him Don. He closed his eyes, and whispered: _"Ye'simcha Elohim ke-Ephraom ve'chi-Menashe. Ye'varech'echa Adonoy ve-yish'merecha. Ya'eir Adonoy panav eilecha viy-chuneka. Yisa Adonoy panav eilecha, ve-yaseim lecha shalom."_

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Jewish blessing offered for a son: _"May God make you like Ephraim and Menashe. May God bless you and watch over you. May God shine His face toward you, and show you favor. May God be favorably disposed toward you, and may He grant you peace."_


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 15**

**_RECLAMATION…_**

When Charlie awoke, it was underneath a warm, blue blanket on the couch. He stretched leisurely, like a cat, thinking it must be Saturday. Otherwise, his father would have hauled him off the couch long before now. Alan would never let him be late for school – and the brightness of the room indicated that it was well into daylight, already. Charlie could tell he was wearing clothes. Given that; the fact that he was on the couch and not in his bed; and the heavenly odor emanating from the kitchen, chances were good he'd fallen asleep here late last night, after coming in from the garage. He tried to remember if he had been working on cognitive emergence, or up late grading….or….. He sat up so swiftly he got a little dizzy. Perhaps he had been held hostage in El Salvador for six months?

Charlie shook his head a little, still a little fuzzy. Looking around, he saw that he was alone. It was not possible that he had experienced some incredibly vivid nightmare, was it? He nervously fingered the stiff denim of his new, stiff jeans. He peeked under the blanket and saw a sweater he was not familiar with. He glanced at his wrist and eyed the bump that didn't belong there. No. Definitely not a nightmare.

Charlie tossed aside the blanket and stood stiffly. He was trying to decide what to do next, when the door from the kitchen swung open, allowing Don to pass through. His brother smiled broadly when he saw that Charlie was awake. "Hey! Afternoon! Little stiff after sleeping on the couch, I'll bet."

Charlie yawned and and raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding? About everything?"

Don stopped a few feet in front of him, still grinning. "Nope. Almost 2:30 in the p.m., Chuck. You slept over 12 hours. Didn't get up and crawl into a corner once. That's good, right?"

Charlie stared at him for a moment, confusion crossing his face. "That's just weird," he finally said. "Shouldn't I have been sleeping like this last week, after I got back?"

Don shrugged. "You know what they say. 'No place like home', and all that."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Where's Dad?"

"Probably backing a U-Haul up to Safeway and having them dump the entire store into it. He said he was just going to stock in a few things, but I'm sure he'll be back with every last thing you ever thought about saying you liked."

Charlie laughed. "I'm not sick. There better not be any gelatin."

Don grinned again. "Already setting up in the fridge."

Charlie groaned and started toward the stairs. "I'm taking a shower," he said, as if it was something he got a chance to say every day. Don watched him mount the stairs and felt a warm buzz. Charlie had just made a decision.

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By the time Charlie got back downstairs half-an-hour later, in a pair of his old, comfortable jeans that threatened to fall off, and a soft, faded, Jerry Garcia t-shirt, Don had a bottle of water and a small plate of crackers and cheese waiting on the table by the couch. Alan had not yet returned from the market. "Dig in," Don invited from the recliner. "Dad's planning a huge meal for later, but you know what the docs said. You should eat several, small meals every day. I thought cheese and crackers would be an okay appetizer…"

Charlie leaned over the table and retrieved a piece of cheese. "Thanks," he said, still standing at the end of the couch. After he had swallowed the cheese, he smiled. "Funny thing," he noted.

Don watched him. "Yeah? What?"

"I was just looking at all the hair products I have in the bathroom. I remember people taking pictures, all the way back after we got out – but I didn't look at them. Did you see them? I was just wondering what my hair looked like without all that stuff I always thought was so important."

Don kept his tone light. "Yeah, I saw the pictures, Charlie. Trust me, you should go back to using the products."

Charlie laughed and grabbed the bottle of water and a cracker. "You are so bad, Don." He looked suddenly very serious. "And that is so good."

Don just smiled silently and waited to see if Charlie had another decision in him. He didn't have to wait long. Charlie picked up another wedge of cheese, and started playing with it. He looked a little nervously toward the kitchen. "Ith.." He paused, and coughed, and started again. "I think I will go out to the garage." He looked at Don worriedly. "Would that be all right?"

Don nodded. "Of course. Do you mind if I tag along? Dad said Larry cleaned it up some while we were gone, and I'd sort of like to see it myself."

Charlie nodded. "Sure." Don stood and joined him, and the two crossed through the kitchen to go out the back door. Charlie swallowed some more cheese and inhaled deeply. "That smells incredible. Once, they gave us something really good, and we all made ourselves sick. In that last place, the compound in the jungle."

Don held open the door for Charlie. "I'll try to make sure you take it easy, tonight – but no guarantees. I usually eat until I'm sick myself, when Dad makes brisket."

Charlie chuckled as they crossed the lawn. When they arrived at the garage, Don waited. Eventually Charlie figured out why, and he reached out and swung open the door. He looked into the garage with some trepidation. "I hope he didn't erase any of my work…." He took a step over the threshold and stood, momentarily stunned. Don peered in over his shoulder and emitted a low whistle.

The good news was that several blackboards were full of the equations Charlie had left on them months before. That was a relief. The other news was that neither man had seen the garage so neat, before – not even in their childhoods, when it had been Alan's workshop. The blackboards were neatly mounted on three perimeter walls, and the fourth contained Charlie's antique wooden desk, with a free-standing book shelf on one side, and several boxes that had come from Charlie's CalSci office on the other. The old couch and easy chair were arranged over an old throw rug in the center of the room, and created an inviting sitting area. The rest of the cement floor was spotless. It appeared that the walls had been painted, before the blackboards were mounted. Since they had both seen Larry's office, it was a shock.

Don pushed in behind Charlie, shoving him forward a little. "Why do I detect Megan's involvement in this?"

Charlie didn't answer, but crossed to a blackboard about half-full. Don watched while he slowly picked up some chalk from the tray. He raised the piece of chalk to his nose, closed his eyes and breathed the scent of it deeply. After a few seconds, he tentatively reached out and scribbled an equation on the board. Don had no idea if it went with the others up there, or if it was just something that flew out of Charlie's head when the chalk touched the board. Either way, it was brief.

Charlie began to circle the garage, reading the boards. Occasionally, he would reach out and underline part of an equation, or circle a letter. He came full-circle, back to Don, and smiled, seeming a little surprised to see him. "This is…nice," he noted. "They did a good job." Don smiled and agreed. Charlie was still holding the chalk, and he nervously twirled it in the fingers of his right hand. "When we talked, we talked about family a lot. I already told you that. But we talked about work, too. All of us, no matter where I was being held, no matter who was there with me. Even when I was alone, I would think about it. None of us wanted to come home and do nothing, you know?" He looked at Don sincerely. "It's _more_ important now, what I do with my life. I've been given a second chance. To love, mostly – but also to make a difference in some way, make a contribution."

Don swallowed. "Charlie…you always contributed. You always made a difference. Remember, I lived here for five years before you did, and I guarantee it: The world became a better place, when you were born."

Charlie blushed furiously and lowered his eyes. "I wasn't fishing for a compliment," he said, sounding a little disappointed. "I was just trying to explain."

Don tried to backtrack. "I know. I'm sorry, if I said something at the wrong time, but I didn't say anything that isn't true." The brothers were silent for a while. Don cleared his throat. "Anyway. We found a message from the Dean of CalSci on the house phone, this morning. He says that he is, quote, 'excited', unquote, to talk to you about next school year's possibilities, whatever the hell that means….Oh. And he welcomed you back."

They both heard Alan's car careen into the driveway, and Charlie shoved the chalk into the pocket of his jeans. "I think you may be right about taking a little time. Not too much," he added hurriedly. "I just want to make sure I make the best choice, you know?"

Don nodded, and smiled. "Best choice right now would be if we helped the old man out with those groceries."

Charlie grinned. "You honestly think he'll let me lift a finger? You just go right ahead." He leaned in the door frame of the garage while Don loped across the lawn toward Alan's car. "I'll just stand here and supervise."

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	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 16**

**_RECLAMATION…_**

Alan watched Charlie drag a fork through his mashed potatoes, using the tines to carve out a division mark. He smiled behind his own forkful of brisket. Although Alan had tried for years to keep Charlie from doing math in his dinner, he welcomed the sight tonight. Charlie had barely made a dent in his plate of food, but he did not appear uninterested. On the contrary, he seemed to be awaiting a second wind. Alan took a sip of wine and swallowed. "You know, Charlie," he started, "you don't have to eat everything at once. If you get hungry in an hour, you can just heat up some leftovers."

"Uh-oh." Don looked guiltily toward his brother. "I was supposed to keep you from making yourself sick, wasn't I?"

Charlie speared a baby carrot. "I'm all right." He shoved the carrot in his mouth and chewed, to prove it. Don grinned and turned back to his brisket. Charlie started working on a multiplication mark. He didn't look at either of them when he spoke. "Do you know how they found me? Who got us out?"

Don paused, fork halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it to his plate and looked at Charlie again. "Not really, no. I know Robert Tompkins and the NSA were involved, and I suspect special forces may have been deployed to extricate Senator Richland. You probably know more than I do. It was way above my security clearance."

Charlie sighed and let go of his fork. He lowered both hands below the table. "I didn't ask many questions," he said. He looked at Don hopefully. "Do you think I could find out? I want to speak to those men." He frowned a little. "I want to know about Carlos, but I'm not sure I can trust what they tell me, anyway."

Don felt his appetite waning. "Charlie…Carlos was one of the bad guys. Jerry Davison is talking to the press, already. I read an interview he did with the _Times_ in today's paper. He says a guard named Carlos almost beat him to death, just a few weeks before you were rescued."

Alan interrupted. "I'm sure in a place like El Salvador, 'Carlos' is a very common name, Donnie."

Don shot his father a glance. "He needs to face things, Dad."

Charlie abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. He was angry, and confused. "Don't…don't speak about me as if I weren't sitting right here! He..he talked to me. He helped me. He sent Miguel to help me!" A look of pure terror crossed his face and he fell back onto the chair. "Oh, God. I got them both killed!"

Don hadn't followed most of that, but he tried to remember what Dr. Enderil had told them. "Charlie…" He spoke softly. "Decent people are capable of horrendous acts, sometimes. Maybe you're right about Carlos. Maybe he was sincere in his beliefs." He spoke more firmly. "But I don't care how sincere he was, he did not have the right to hold you against your will. None of them had that right, and none of them should have so much as thought about touching you."

Charlie had his arms wrapped around his middle. He was rocking slightly in the chair. "I…need….I…need….I need…." It was becoming a mantra.

Alan rose and walked to Charlie's chair, and squatted in front of his son. Gently, carefully, he put a hand on Charlie's knee. "What do you need, Charlie? We'll find it for you; your brother and I will help you get what you need."

Charlie held his father's eyes for a moment, and then looked at Don. He stopped rocking and hung his head. "Make it so it never happened," he said into his chest. "Which one of you can do that for me?"

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Don flopped onto his back and looked at the luminous digital numbers. 3:00 a.m. He sighed. What a night.

What had started as a nice, family meal had somehow degenerated into full-blown Stockholm. Charlie's defense of Carlos, of what he called "the insurgence within the insurgence" , had finally teetered the totter the other way. For the first time Don knew about, Charlie moved directly into an episode of Post Traumatic Stress. Alan had moved his hand from Charlie's knee to his wrist, in an attempt to reach him, and his brother had slithered from the dining room chair like melted chocolate. He had crawled at break-neck speed to a corner behind the table and crossed his arms over his head, trying to protect his face. It had taken Don and Alan 10 minutes to get him back from wherever he had gone. Don was just about to call Megan, and beg for her help.

Charlie, who had been so…so _wonderfully normal_, this afternoon in the garage, had turned into an exhausted, terrified victim just a few hours later. Even though he had witnessed the whole thing, Don still wasn't sure how it had happened. He was glad he had asked for the rest of this week off, even after their return from Bethesda. He needed to be here, for a while.

At least he and Alan had gotten Charlie up the stairs and into an actual bed, tonight. Charlie had fallen into an immediate, if restless, sleep before 8 o'clock, and his father and brother had taken turns sitting in a chair in his room until well after midnight. Now, Don swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. As long as he was awake anyway, he might as well check on him.

He intended to pad directly across the hall, to Charlie's room, but Don noticed a strip of light leaking under the bathroom door. He hesitated, then quickly checked Charlie's room. A night light Alan kept in the hallway shed just enough light for Don to tell that the bed was empty. Of course, Chuck could be in a corner of the room, by now. "Charlie?", Don whispered, peering as well as he could into the shadows.

He didn't see anything or sense any movement, so Don exited the room and headed for the bathroom. He knocked on the door, a little surprised when it swung open at his touch. Charlie sat on the edge of the bathtub, arms wrapped around his stomach, looking miserable. Don stood in the doorway. He still whispered, so he wouldn't wake Alan. "Charlie? What's going on?"

Charlie looked at him blearily. "Is it okay that I'm in here? I waited, but no-one came…"

Great. Every step forward seemed to precede two steps back. Now the poor guy was afraid to make any decision, again. Don sat next to him on the edge of the bathtub. "You can go wherever you want to now, Charlie. It's all right. But it's the middle of the night – you okay?"

Charlie's arms tightened around his middle and he shrugged. "I think I'm having a polenta moment."

Okay. Hadn't seen that one coming. "A what?"

"That's what they fed us that time when we ate too much, and we all got sick."

Awareness overcame Don, and a slight smile played on his lips. "Dad told you not to eat everything at once."

Charlie just looked at him soundlessly. Don actually chuckled lowly. "Seriously. Did you take anything?"

Now Charlie looked confused, and shook his head. "Only what you gave me. If something is missing, I don't know where it is…"

Don stopped smiling. He wanted to cry, instead. "No, Charlie, that's not what I mean. I meant for your stomach, some antacid or something."

A look of comprehension passed swiftly over Charlie's face. "Oh. Oh. That's probably a good idea."

Don stood and opened the medicine cabinet on the wall. He chose a couple of effervescent antacid tablets, ran some water into a glass and dropped them in. While they dissolved, he turned back to Charlie slowly, watching the bubbles. Maybe his brother could be like that. Maybe if he and Alan and all their friends surrounded Charlie with enough liquid love, the lump of the last six months would slowly dissolve, and all the pain would bubble to the surface, and dissipate. In fact, as far as Don was concerned, that was damn sure going to happen.

The white tablets had been replaced with dancing bubbles, and Don held out the glass to Charlie. "Here," he offered, sincerely. "Feel better."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 17**

**_RECLAMATION…_**

"You're sure you feel up to this?" Alan watched his youngest son anxiously. Since the brisket meltdown the day before yesterday, they had experienced a relatively calm 36 hours. Not that Charlie was entirely suppressing his emotions. Yesterday he had read the Jerry Davison interview in the _Times_ and ranted for almost an hour. Alan and Don had heard plenty of details about the compound, and about Davison's shortcomings as a man. They had commented as little as possible, yet tried to make it clear they were interested in listening to Charlie. He had finally talked himself into a two-hour nap on the couch. Alan had thrown away the paper while he was sleeping.

Today, Alan was roasting a turkey. When Charlie had come downstairs for a late breakfast around 10, Alan had tentatively suggested that one of their friends be invited over to join them for dinner. Even if Charlie hadn't been up half the night after an especially vivid nightmare – which he had been – Alan didn't want to push him to do too much too soon. Charlie had shoved scrambled eggs around a plate and finally settled on Larry. Then he said that Alan could invite Megan, too. "I understand you get two for the price of one, now," he had added. Alan smiled, but questioned Charlie to be sure he was up for two visitors.

Charlie didn't quite meet his eyes. "If you're going to have Thanksgiving dinner in March," he said, glancing at the kitchen door, "we might as well have guests."

Alan was sitting at the table with him, having another cup of coffee. He regarded Charlie seriously. "Is is, you know."

Charlie swallowed a bite of egg. "What is?"

"Thanksgiving in March. Last November, both of my sons were in El Salvador. Don had just been shot and left for dead in the jungle, and you had been missing over two months. Everyone tried to include me in their plans, but I was so frightened. I didn't want to see the pity in their eyes. I drove down to San Diego, and had lunch with your Aunt Ida in the retirement home she's living in. Now, both of my sons are home. Every meal is Thanksgiving dinner."

Charlie stared at him for a long moment, and Alan saw a myriad of emotions pass through his eyes. Sadness stayed the longest. "I am so sorry," he said quietly. "Everyone has suffered, so much."

"Yes," Alan agreed, "but that's not your fault."

Charlie laid his fork down next to his half-full plate. "No. I can still be sorry it happened, though."

"That's true," nodded Alan, picking up his coffee mug again. "I'm sure we all are."

Charlie glanced at the kitchen door again, then back at his father. "Where's Don?"

Alan checked his watch. "He had a physical therapy appointment this morning, and then a doctor's appointment. He's hoping to be released to field duty – or at least get a firm date."

Charlie looked worried. "Do you think he's ready?"

Alan sighed. "Face it, Charlie – he'll always be more ready to do this job than I am for him to do it. Physically…well, I'll just have to trust the doctor. My biggest concern was always his emotional state. He tried so hard to find you. He never believed you were dead, not for one second. It almost broke him, when he couldn't fix everything, and bring you home."

Charlie blinked rapidly and pushed back his chair. He stood and looked at the door, again. "I think…I'd like to see the koi. May I see the koi?"

Alan was a little relieved. He'd been wondering when Charlie would get around to the koi. He smiled. "Of course you can, son. I think they missed you."

Charlie actually smiled at that. "Dad. They're fish, not dogs. They don't exactly meet you at the door after a long day in El Salvador."

Alan swallowed his coffee quickly before he spit it all over the table. Charlie's sense of humor had always been an unpredictable thing, but that one, he really had not been expecting. He sat the mug on the table and stood himself. "I could go with you, if you'd like."

Charlie looked enormously relieved. "Yes. If you have time….I know you're busy," he finished a little apprehensively. "I could go on my own…"

Alan smiled and walked around the table. "I'm not busy, son. There's only one thing I have to do right now, and that's make up for lost time." He headed for the door to the back yard. "Come on," he invited. "Wild koi could not keep me away."

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Larry accepted a slab of white meat from Alan and placed it at a 45-degree angle between the steamed cauliflower and the gravy-less mashed potatoes. A mound of melted marshmallows, scraped from the top of the sweet potato casserole, completed his plate. Charlie watched the physicist reach for the salt shaker, so he could put some white seasoning on his white food, and started laughing.

Heads turned toward him and hands paused in mid-air. Don frowned, tongs on a dinner roll. "Charlie?"

Charlie gestured at Larry's dinner. "I was just thinking how interesting it is that everyone is worried about_ my_ emotional well-being."

Even Larry smiled at that. "Charles, you have long known of my predeliction towards white foods. I think you will be amazed, however. Megan has convinced me to branch out, somewhat. I intend to sample the stuffing, later. I just don't feel quite right not starting my meal with a course of whiteness, I'm afraid."

Charlie smiled at him fondly, accepting a green bean casserole from Don. "I thought of your eating habits, over there."

Larry clutched at his ear. "Do tell."

Charlie passed on the beans to Megan. "The bread we had to eat most of the time was a heavy, peasant bread. It was probably actually rather healthy, as breads go…but it was dark. A dense brown. I remember thinking it was a good thing you had not come on the humanitarian mission with me."

Larry's eyes flickered to Alan for a moment, then back. "Dear Charles," he said sincerely. "I so wish I had. Perhaps I could have been of assistance, in some way."

Charlie regarded a saucer of jiggling cranberry sauce Don held dangerously near his elbow. "I could have used your help with a chess tournament I got myself into against a 'book seller' from the former Soviet Union."

"That reminds me," put in Don, shoving the cranberry sauce at Charlie and grabbing a drumstick off the platter of turkey Alan had carved. "Did I hear you speaking Russian when I got home this afternoon?"

Charlie had long ago stopped taking anything from the dishes he continued to pass on to Megan. "I had to make some calls. We promised each other, if we ever got out, that we would contact each other's families. It took me a couple of days to work my way into it."

"Has anyone else been released?", asked Alan. "I know you said you didn't see the Russian men after that first place you were held."

Charlie's eyes flashed darkly and he looked down at his plate. "This is too much food. I'll have another polenta moment."

Megan ignored the men around her and pushed Charlie. "Do you not want to talk about this right now? Have you decided whether or not to see a professional, for awhile? I could get some referrals for you."

Larry remembered something suddenly, and spoke before Charlie could respond to Megan. "Charles. Dean Williams has been by my office every day since we learned of your rescue. The man is terrified you won't come back to CalSci next year. Have you considered your employment options?"

Alan had gotten up and gone into the kitchen. He shoved back through the swinging door, talking. "Charlie, I was just looking in the refrigerator. There is still some gelatin in there. Would you like some?"

Don, in his enthusiasm, had spilled gravy on his favorite shirt. He looked at it in dismay. "Buddy, pass me a few napkins, would you?"

Charlie didn't answer any of them, and eventually, they all noticed. When they looked at him, he had his arms wrapped around his middle and was rocking slightly in the chair. His eyes were glazed, unseeing. Megan, sitting next to him, reacted first. "Charlie…"

She touched his face, not removing her hand when he visibly flinched. "Charlie, it's all right. Look at me." She brought her other hand to his face and physically turned his head so that he was facing her. "Charlie, I need you to breathe. Concentrate on my voice. You're safe, now. Charlie, can you hear me?"

Charlie's entire body spasmed in a jerk, and his eyes snapped back into focus. He pulled back from Megan's hands and looked nervously from one set of eyes to another. "What?"

Alan crossed the dining room and stood behind Charlie's chair. He rested his hands lightly on his shoulders. "You zoned out for a minute, there, son. Everything all right?"

Charlie shrugged Alan's hands off. He left one arm around his middle, as if his ribs hurt, and reached with the other for his fork. He stabbed his slice of turkey as if it wasn't quite dead, yet. "Stop asking so many questions," he ordered, shortly. Just give me a fucking break."

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Later, looking back, Don decided that's when they probably should have called it quits. Alan had worked so hard on the meal, and Larry and Megan had waited so long to see Charlie. They tried to make a go of it. Charlie didn't volunteer any more stories about his captivity, and he grew increasingly quiet and withdrawn. Whatever he had flashed back to during the storm of questions had left him in a bitter mood; one Don had not really witnessed from his brother since Charlie's return.

Larry and Megan, obviously feeling badly that they had somehow set Charlie off, made an early evening of it. They thanked Alan profusely, said again how glad they were to have Charlie home, and hugged him goodnight. He accepted their touches stiffly, and did not attempt to return them, although he did seem to make an attempt at a civil goodbye.

The next day, Charlie wouldn't come out of his room. When Alan sent Don up to check on him around 10, he was sitting on the floor, in the corner farthest from the door. Don started to sit next to him, but Charlie tried to draw himself into the wall. "I'm just tired," he said, truly sounding as if he was. "I just can't do this, anymore. It's too hard."

Don stood uncertainly and looked down at his brother. "What is, Charlie?"

"Everything," Charlie whispered, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "Just let me sleep."


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer Continues. Much like the story…**

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**Chapter 18**

**_RECLAMATION…_**

Charlie's depression was deep, and frightened Alan. On the one hand, looking at things objectively, he could certainly understand why a man who had been through what Charlie had would fall into a depression. On the other hand, he was worried for his son's physical health. He wasn't eating well, and in the last three days, he had only left his bedroom for brief trips to the bathroom. He didn't seem to have the energy to take care of himself, anymore. He hadn't shaved, or showered, or changed his clothes since Larry and Megan had come over.

Late Sunday afternoon, Don tracked Alan down in the kitchen to have a talk. He sat down heavily at the table. "Dad, I'm supposed to go back to work, tomorrow. I'm still on light duty for another week, I could request some more family leave time. Legally, they've already given me all they're required to this year, but Merrick said I could take as much time as I needed to help Charlie." He pounded a fist on the table, making Alan jump at the stove, where he stirred a thick chicken soup. "I just don't know how to help him. I don't think I'm doing him any good – but I won't go back to work if you need my help. I won't leave you alone with him like this."

Alan placed a lid on the pot and sat down across from Don. He stared at Don's clenched fist on the table. "The doctor at Bethesda said we have to accept Charlie as he is now. I think…I think maybe being with people outside the immediate family made him confront all he's lost. Time he will never get back. He lost important moments with his family and friends, here. He didn't get to help you, when you were shot. He probably feels like it's his fault you even got shot. He didn't get to be in on the beginning of Larry and Megan's relationship; he came back, and it was a done deal. Through no fault of his own, he is in the position of having to ask for his job back. And now, he's lost the people who kept him alive for the last six months. Talking to their families must have been difficult, and probably made him acutely aware of their fates. Any option is not good. If they were released, they're dealing with the same issues he is. If they are dead, they suffered for nothing. If they are still captives, they continue to suffer."

Don was impressed by his father's understanding of Charlie, but he didn't feel any better. "So what do we do?" he whined, feeling and looking like the child he once was.

Alan looked at him, familiar heartbreak in his eyes. "The hardest thing of all, Donnie. We let Charlie be sad."

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The next morning, Charlie knocked on Don's door at 7:30. Expecting his father, Don called sleepily from the bed. "Five more minutes!" He was surprised when the door swung open and Charlie stood there. He sat up quickly, "Hey. Thought you were Dad."

Charlie pushed a hand through his hair. "Are you going back to work, today? I was going to take a shower, but I don't want to use up all the hot water if you need it."

Don gaped at him. "You must be feeling better," he said, stupidly.

Charlie stiffened, but he answered. "I guess. I thought I might work for a while in the garage, this morning."

Don was at a loss. He had called Merrick at home last night and asked for another few days off, thinking Charlie might have to seek inpatient psychiatric care. Now he was talking about showers and working in the garage. Don didn't know what to say. "I….sure," he finally stammered, not sure himself what that meant.

Charlie stood in the doorway and looked down the hall. Then he inhaled deeply and came into the room. He crossed to Don's bed and sat on the edge. "I know I've been all over the place," he said. "I know you're worried. I'm sorry about that. You and Dad have worried about me enough, I can't promise to fix it all today. Right now, I feel like I have enough energy to take a shower, and walk out to the garage. Maybe in the middle of the shower, I'll decide that was a bit optimistic. All I can promise you is that I'll try. I've lost enough, Donnie. I don't want to throw anything I have left to me away."

Don looked into Charlie's dark, pain-clouded eyes, and imagined that he saw bubbles coming to the surface.

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**_JULY 4th…_**

Charlie hung back from the crowd a little, as he still did – as he always might. If they hadn't been outside, he would probably be standing so that a wall was near his back. Alan watched him balance a paper plate on his casted arm while he held a fresh beer in the other, and marveled again. Two weeks ago, when Charlie had gained back 19 pounds, an orthopedist had refractured and repaired his twice-broken wrist, using two pins and a plate. When he was told that Charlie would only be in the hospital overnight, Alan had laughed out loud. This was a serious operation, and he still remembered when Charlie had two of his wisdom teeth pulled ten years ago. His son, bless his heart, did not deal with illness well.

On the evening of the early-morning surgery, driving home with a Charlie who refused to stay even one night in the hospital, Alan wondered what he had been thinking. He still forgot, sometimes, that the Charlie he remembered was not the Charlie he lived with now. He was sure his son suffered a great deal of pain, those first few days. He was equally, and sadly, certain that pain had been such a constant presence in Charlie's life for so long, that he had reached a whole new level of understanding with it.

There was still sadness, and hesitancy in Charlie. Every day, though, Alan found at least one reason to admire his strength. He had even begun to expand his research, to include cognitive emergence principles that develop during captivity. He had found a way to use his numbers to help him heal.

Alan smiled as Don left the majority of his team at the picnic table and headed for the barbecue. On the way, he stopped beside his brother and draped an arm around his shoulders. Charlie did not so much as flinch. He simply looked up at Don and smiled, thrusting the beer at him and expertly catching his paper plate as it began to tip. Alan watched Don gesture with the bottle towards Larry and Megan, who were sitting on the blanketed grass near the koi pond, sharing a plate of white food. He leaned closer to Charlie and said something into his ear. Alan couldn't hear what he said from his position behind the buffet table, but he heard clearly the best thing he had heard all year.

He heard Charlie laugh.

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END

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed my 50th story as much as I did! I know some will be disappointed that this is ending, but all things do, and there's a fine line to tread between Too Much Information and Not Enough. Anyway, thank you for all the wonderful reviews, and special thanks to Tanager36, who came up with this idea in the first place. For more serious reading, I recommend Den of Lions by Terry Anderson, a journalist who was held hostage in Lebanon for seven (count 'em) years. (For less-serious reading, I just posted my first Oneshot in Supernatural fandom -- Don and Charlie showed up last night with a resume for this other set of brothers that I have been letting off scot-free... Mostly, I did it to distract them. Don't tell.)**


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